Life and Style
by JeSuisUnePomme
Summary: FrUk/FACE Family. Modern human AU. Arthur Kirkland has a comfortable, solitary, familiar lifestyle that he would much prefer to stay that way. Wishes don't always come true, though, and his world is tilted by the one and only Francis Bonnefoy, then completely flipped upside-down when suddenly entrusted with the care of his two young nephews.
1. Chapter 1

**LIFE AND STYLE**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

 _Arthur Kirkland_ '

Arthur loved seeing his name in glossy print. No matter how many published pieces he had under his belt now, every magazine issue that came out he'd flip to where his article was featured and wistfully stare at the bottom of the page, 'Author: Arthur Kirkland'. It was intensely satisfying.

"You may not have popular opinions, Arthur," his editor had said to him, staring at him over his glasses, hands folder neatly atop his giant desk, "but, you cause a splash. Readers like being riled up." And so Arthur was rewarded for his brash opinions with an office and desk and recurrent spot in a home and lifestyle magazine under the Edelstein Publishing brand.

His small office, with a large western-facing window, was shared with another writer for the same magazine: a tidy, soft-spoken, and polite Japanese gentleman of the name Mr. Kiku Honda. Arthur got along with him famously and quite enjoyed sharing a working space with him. They could have friendly conversations and work in comfortable silence. Arthur had mixed feelings when Kiku broke out of the article-writing business and published his first novel. He was promoted and offered a multiple book contract along with a new, private office on an upper floor.

Arthur was happy his friend had seemingly hit it big, but sad to see him collect his things in a cardboard box before moving offices.

He then discovered he was quite fond of having a whole office to himself. At first, the desk across from his made the room feel too big, but Arthur quickly grew to enjoy the silence and extra space. He knew it wouldn't last forever, and he steeled himself for the day when he would be introduced to his new office-mate.

Arthur did his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when there was an unexpected knock at his office door and placed the brightest smile he could muster on his face.

"Mr. Kirkland?" Came a soft, accented voice from behind him. Arthur spun around in his chair, removing his reading glasses from his face.

"Yes! That's me." There in the door stood a lean man in a tidy, tailored navy suit, long, blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck and a neatly trimmed beard on his chin. He had shining blue eyes, the corners crinkled in a friendly smile. He held one slender hand out for a handshake, the other balancing a tattered cardboard box on his hip with a flourished 'FB' marked in felt on the side. Arthur grasped his hand firmly, standing.

"Francis Bonnefoy, Haute Cuisine," the man introduced himself along with the article he wrote for. He smelled faintly of something sweet, flowery. "I am your new office-mate."

"Arthur Kirkland, Brash Opinions and short fiction," Arthur responded warmly, gesturing to the empty desk. "Make yourself at home! Ah-" he quickly grabbed all his loose papers he had strewn on the second desk, having made it useful to him during his time working alone.

Arthur was a firm believer in first impressions and Francis made an excellent first impression.

Or so he thought.

Cheerful civility between the two lasted less than a week. Their working relationship degraded to petty insults and daily bursts of heated arguments. Something about Francis put Arthur on edge as soon as he rounded the corner in to their office and would stay coiled in his gut until he left for home at the end of the day. He both dreaded seeing the Frenchman and thrived on the energy that would crackle in the air whenever they occupied the same space.

Their strange dynamic quickly became a hot topic throughout the entire Edelstein Publishing building. Company-wide meetings were not quite so dull for anyone around them, the two providing easy entertainment.

" _Monsieur_ ," Francis would sigh wistfully, "I suppose you are entitled to your own _wrong_ opinions. But must you inflict them on the rest of us?"

"I'm dedicating a whole research article to you, Francy-Pants," Arthur would say, "It's called, 'The Idiocies and Dangers Associated With Promiscuity'. I was thinking of making it a multiple-part series, what do you think?"

"Oh, _rosbif_ , you honor me! But, surely, this piece is simply a jealous manifestation of your own inability to woo anyone?"

"I'm very skilled at romancing, I will have you know, Frog."

"Oho," Francis would delicately chuckle, "the only ones you can successfully romance are teenage girls with those fluffy fiction pieces you somehow get published. Truly," Francis would continue, "you are a brave man, for you churn out shit you call romance and attach your name to it."

"At least I have job security," Arthur would snap back, "there are only so many times you can write about dish patterns, table placements, and the importance of a well-paired wine."

"You simply do not have an appreciation or understanding of class."

"I heard the burger shack down the road is hiring, I'd happily give them a glowing recommendation for you."

"At least I don't have two monstrous caterpillars for eyebrows."

"At least I'm not a smelly, baguette-loving _Frenchman_."

"Rude! You are a poor specimen of an Englishman!"

"Frog!"

" _Cr_ _é_ _tin_!"

While they had a tumultuous relationship, and argued nearly constantly, as soon as someone else was involved they would band together. If someone insulted Arthur, Francis would hurriedly defend him, " _non_ , you simply misunderstand him, he is a kind man at heart! He is so full of love for those that are close to him, you just have to get through his defenses. His opinions are meant to make you _think_!" And in turn, Arthur would defend Francis, "His articles are important. The next generation needs to learn a thing or two about class and tradition. I refuse to accept eating microwave dinners on a sofa in front of a TV as normal practice. I, for one, am glad he is making an effort to educate our readership."

At home, Arthur never disliked when his alarm would go off at 6:00 in the morning. He would wake, sometimes wishing he could sleep a little longer, sometimes rising out of his bed without a backwards glance. He would shower, find his way to his kitchen and make himself coffee and toast. He would sit in his small, sunny kitchen at the table beside the large glass doors that lead to his patio and read the newspaper. He enjoyed watching songbirds in the birdbath he had placed in the centre of his modest yard. He would holler and shake a rolled-up newspaper at the glass when he noticed a neighbourhood cat getting a little too close for his comfort. At ten past 7, he would rise from his spot in the kitchen and start to prepare to leave for work. He was out the door by half past, and would arrive to work with five minutes to spare. That was his routine. It was simple, familiar, and just the way Arthur liked it. He had absolutely no intention of changing it for any reason or for any person.

Even as a young child Arthur had been quite solitary. He preferred to play by himself than with the other children, whom he found to be quite loud an obnoxious. He did not often have much in common with his peers, anyway. His imagination was much too wild, and other kids didn't seem to be able to keep up while he daydreamed entire adventures up and lived them out in his pretend play. They boys his age were more interested in pretending to be heroes or digging in the dirt. Arthur much preferred to pretend he was being captured by dragons and he had to figure out how to escape – no one ever came to rescue a prince, after all. He had many imaginary friends that would keep him company when the other kids would call him strange.

Even as an adult, before his mother had passed away, she had fret about him and his solitary lifestyle. "You need to make more friends, Arthur," she'd fuss, "perhaps you could go live with your sister?" she'd suggest.

He'd respond, "I have enough friends. And, I love Elizabeth dearly, mummy, but I cannot even be in the same room with her for longer than absolutely necessary, never mind sharing a living space." And it was true. He did love his sister, but they were as similar as black is to white. She would sigh, of course, and mutter something along the lines that she wasn't going to be around to keep him company forever.

"You need to meet a nice girl and settle down, Artie," was another one of her favorite topics. He would regard her over a cup of tea and roll his eyes, avoiding her distressed gaze, refusing to comment. "Or perhaps a nice young man?" she'd query, Arthur nearly spitting his tea out, red-faced and choking.

" _Mum_!" She'd smile sweetly and ruffle his hair.

"You were always a bit different, pet." The conversation never progressed past that point.

Routine. Even his past conversations were rooted in it. He thrived on routine.

Then Francis Bonnefoy happened and threw a wrench in to his life.

At first the changes were subtle and Arthur hardly seemed to notice. But, when he did start to pick up on these things, he only grew more restless and discontent. He would sleep a little less soundly, he would wake a little more groggy. There were days when his alarm would go off and he would be positively furious at the noise. He could no longer enjoy reading his newspaper in the morning, sitting alone in his kitchen. _Why_? That was a good question. Frustratingly, Arthur did not have an answer for himself. The only thing that seemed to be consistent was his hatred for the cats stalking his birds in the yard.

He would arrive to work, sometimes on time, sometimes a few minutes late (which resulted in raised eyebrows from his editor if they happened to run in to each other in the hall on his way to his office). He would storm in to his shared space and wait to see what expression was on Francis' face – you see, that would determine the kind of morning they were going to have.

If Francis was smiling widely, he knew he was going to spend much of the day furious. If he looked perplexed, Arthur could expect to have an enjoyable day. If he looked focused, and hardly even acknowledged Arthur as he slid in to his office chair, he knew the day was going to be quiet and work would actually be completed by the time 5 pm rolled around.

Lunchtime was usually a welcome break from whatever kind of day he was having. Lunchtime, thankfully, was still normal.

"How is your office-mate?" Kiku asked Arthur one afternoon as the two walked to the park for lunch. Arthur very much enjoyed his time with Kiku. Kiku respected routine and never did anything too unexpected. Kiku was _normal_.

Arthur thought for a moment about the Frenchman. "He is a constant pain in my ass."

"You could ask for an office transfer."

"No," Arthur sighed, "it would be unkind to inflict him upon anyone else. I am used to dealing with him by now."

The two fell in to thoughtful silence as they walked, then settled themselves on a bench overlooking a field where couples were walking dogs, young families were playing with small children, a pair of friends tossed a Frisbee back and forth. Finally Kiku broke the silence, "I think he has inspired quite a bit of your recent writings."

"What? Hardly!" Arthur froze in unwrapping his sandwich and looked at the small man next to him. "Where on earth did you come up with such a notion?"

"Ah, I apologize, Arthur." Kiku ducked his head, focusing on his own sandwich. There was a moment of silence again before, "he just seems to have ignited a fire in you. Your writing has been a lot more, ah," a horrified expression suddenly passed over Kiku's face and he looked up at Arthur warily, who arched his eyebrow, urging him to continue. "You have always been a talented writer, Arthur," he said, clearing is throat. "Ever since you started sharing an office with Francis, your writing has been a lot more... impassioned."

"What?"

"In a good way!" Kiku added, shaking his head wildly. "I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your most recent articles. The short story you had published last month was incredible."

"I suppose he gives me a lot of things to have angry opinions about. He is certainly a lesson in patience." The two ate in silence for some time. "How is your book coming along?"

Kiku put the last bit of sandwich in to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, "I am too old to be so worried about deadlines in the middle of the night," he said at last, "I suppose I enjoy it, though. It is a lot more work than articles."

The rest of their lunch was spent in pleasant conversation.

Upon returning from his meal, Arthur considered what Kiku had said. He would not have thought of Francis as an inspiration in his writing; however, later that afternoon, he was keenly aware of how the Frenchman flooded his thoughts. He recalled how he kept wondering what Francis would do in specific situations, and casually asked his thoughts on certain subjects while researching for his current piece. No sooner would he scold himself and think, ' _don't ask Francis_ -' his mouth would already be posing a question. There would be a beat of silence as Francis would mull over his answer, then his eyes would pop up from behind the computer monitors between them as he gave a soft-spoken reply. This would often lead to a violent debate when Arthur disagreed with him.

Perhaps Kiku was right, those debates often found their way in to his writing. Looking back at his most recent work, there were often references to his office mate and his thoughts on whatever he had written about. " _My desk-mate thinks..._ ", " _The other day my office-mate said..._ ", or " _My coworker suggested..._ ", and perhaps to a casual reader, these could all be about anyone, but Arthur knew that they were all of Francis.

How annoying.

"I had a reader write in a question about single parenting," Arthur casually brought up later that day as he stretched in his office chair.

"Hm?" Francis didn't look up over the monitor, the sounds of him typing on his keyboard paused to indicate that he was listening.

"A reader wrote in the other day. She was saying something about having a career opportunity that would potentially cause her to relocate, but she has two young sons."

"Oh? What was her question?" His eyes appeared above the monitors now, locking on to Arthur's.

"If she should accept the job and uproot her young children."

"Let me see this letter." A hand of slender fingers was reaching across the desks towards Arthur, palm up and waiting. Arthur rummaged around his desk until he found the crinkled piece of paper, passing it over. Francis idly played with his hair as he read:

 _'Dearest Brash Opinions,_

 _Long time reader, big fan_ ("Aw, Arthur! You have fans! How quaint!"). _I am wondering what your thoughts might be on a personal issue I am having:_

 _I am a single mother of two young boys, their father is not in the picture._

 _I struggle to balance their needs and my own life and job in order to provide for my boys. I love them dearly, but I feel I have lost so much of myself in raising them alone._

 _I was recently offered a position across the pond, a fantastic job opportunity that could open up a lot of doors for me and my boys in the future. This job would also be a personal dream come true!_

 _However, taking the job would mean moving. My boys are sensitive, and I don't want to uproot them from the lives they have here, but I could do so much for them if I take this job._

 _Do you have any advice?_

 _EK'_

Francis handed the letter back and shrugged, "since when are you an advice column?" he asked. "What do _you_ think?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur let the letter fall in front of him. "I was thinking of responding to it and maybe doing an article on parenting." He looked up at Francis searchingly. "I feel for her situation, it must be hard to give up your dreams, and a difficult decision when they become obtainable at the cost of family."

"I think as soon as you have children, _they_ should become your dream." Francis said, shrugging again. "If she already knows that it would be a bad choice to move them...?" he did not continue his thought. "It's hard to give an opinion when you do not know the family and have such little parenting experience."

"I have nephews!" Arthur defended himself. If this EK though he was good enough to go to for help with such a sensitive issue, then he must be qualified enough to share his thoughts on the matter, at least in her eyes.

"I would be careful with you how respond, _nugget de poulet_ ," Francis sighed, eyes disappearing behind the monitors again. "A topic like that could easily backfire."

"Everything I write about could backfire, frog." Francis didn't take the bait and stayed silent, the typing of his keyboard continuing after a moment. Arthur sighed.

' _Dear EK,_

 _My advice..._ '

Maybe Francis was right? Maybe he should leave this one alone? On the other hand, it was not often readers wrote in and actively sought out his opinion on something. He usually responded to current events or wrote about his own life and musings on the world around him. While he did have nephews, he hadn't seen them since they were born, he wasn't even sure how old they were now. And the last time he'd seen his sister was Christmas several years ago.

' _Do you have any family you could turn to?_ ' This seemed like a safe, neutral direction to take his response. ' _Perhaps they could watch your boys while you go on ahead and see if this job is really what is right? If it looks like the right decision, you could prepare for them to come join you later. If it doesn't work out, then you haven't uprooted your sons and you can easily return to life here._ ' Best of both worlds. He could give parenting advice! Arthur continued to flesh out his response, before sending it to his editor. He didn't think it would be the best thing to publish in the magazine, but perhaps Roderich knew how to get in touch with the woman and they could at least mail her his reply.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 **AN:** Here's a little thing I'm working on... whoops! Please drop a review, they encourage me to keep going!  
Arthur's sister is named Elizabeth. This is not Hungary. I chose the name because he's England and Elizabeth SCREAMS British to me for obvious reasons haha  
Please see my profile for a detailed update schedule for my fics.


	2. Chapter 2

**Life and Style**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

 **AN:** This chapter contains some sexual situations, coarse language, and naughty topics. You have been warned.

* * *

To say Arthur was going to have a bad week would be putting it mildly.

 _Monday_

Monday rolled around once again, and Arthur was relieved to awaken from his slumber not agitated by his alarm and having slept soundly throughout the entire night.

He hummed to himself while he got up, made his bed, showered, and while leaning over his vanity shaving. He continued to hum as he dressed (his favorite olive drab green tweed suit, plaid), tied his tie (cherry red), combed his hair (attempted), and brushed his teeth. He hummed as he jogged down the stairs, sailed in to his kitchen, flicked on his kettle for tea and retrieved some bread for toast.

He stopped humming when he pressed down the button of the toaster and his lights dimmed, the toaster coughed, and flames erupted from the slots. Arthur stood there for a moment, watching the little flames sprouting from his toaster in utter shock. He sprang in to action the moment his fire alarm started blaring, unplugging the small appliance and throwing open his patio door to let the smoke out.

"Bloody perfect!" he swore, fanning the air with a tea towel.

He didn't bother trying to find time to read the newspaper in the quiet of his kitchen; instead, he tried to find something to make for breakfast. Turning up empty-handed, and vowing to go buy groceries at some point soon, he stuffed buttered bread in to his mouth and ran for his car.

When he arrived to the office, on time, Francis seemed to be in a sour mood. Arthur was relieved that at least his work day was going to turn out alright.

"Good morning, Arthur," Francis sighed softly, not even bothering to look up from his computer as Arthur slid in to his chair and booted up his computer. "I hate Mondays, don't you?"

"I think Mondays are bloody brilliant," Arthur tried to sound cheery, even if it was just to disagree with the Frenchman. Francis didn't respond and sighed heavily again. Arthur was quite happy to ignore him and start work.

There was a sudden rap at the door followed by, "Arthur, there you are," Arthur spun around in his chair and looked up at his editor who was poking his head around the door frame. "Bondevik just told me his short story will not be ready in time for printing. Do you have something up your sleeve you could contribute?"

"Ah, yes sir, I could whip something up."

"Thank you. Will you have it on my desk by Friday?" Arthur knew better than to assume that was anything but an order. He nodded his head and smiled. "Hello, Francis. How's the article coming?"

"Oh, _très bien_ , Roderich. You are so kind to ask me." Francis' voice was dripping in sarcasm, Roderich scowled, but said nothing more. He nodded to each of them before disappearing from view. Francis started muttering under his breath in French.

The rest of the day breezed by, Arthur thoroughly enjoying Francis' discomfort as he struggled with his article. On his way home he stopped in to a grocery store to buy some eggs for the next morning's breakfast, cream for his tea, and another loaf of bread. For dinner, he ordered Chinese and in the evening curled up in bed with a good book until he fell asleep.

.

 _Tuesday_

Arthur woke with a kink in his neck, a splitting headache, and still dressed in his suit from the previous day.

When his shower did not make him feel better in the slightest, he told himself a nice morning cuppa would do the trick. He was most disheartened to discover the cream he had bought the previous afternoon smelled of curdled milk and was indeed past its expiry. He resigned himself to stopping at a coffee shop on his way to work, furious that he had not looked closer at the expiry on the cream before he bought it. He normally always checked the dates. Of course, the _one_ time he doesn't...

Once at the office, he sank in to his chair (happily, Francis was scowling at his computer screen and chewing on a thumbnail) and brought his to-go cup to his lips expecting the smooth flavour of creamed earl gray tea and was met with the bitter shock of black coffee.

"Bloody _hell_!" he spat, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Francis finally looked up at him from over his monitors.

"Good morning, _mon amour_ , you seem well?" He sighed, bags heavy under his eyes.

"I'm in no mood for your damn French, frog," Arthur spat, slamming his cup on his desk. "They got my bloody order wrong."

"What did they give you?"

"Coffee."

"Oh!" Francis' eyes lit up, "may I have it if you won't drink it, _sourcils_?"

"Fine."

Francis was suddenly upon him, going out of his way so he could lean over Arthur's shoulder, reaching for the coffee cup. His hair brushed across Arthur's cheek and he felt his face heat up. His hair smelled sweet, like strawberries and cream, and Arthur surprised himself by his intense desire to bury his nose in it, breathe it in, and forget about his crappy morning.

" _Merci beaucoup_ , Arthur," Francis purred into his ear, collecting the cup and sauntering back to his own desk.

By the end of the day, his headache had still not subsided, which only further soured his mood. He was dragging his feet to his car once 5 pm rolled around, he reached into his pocket and-

Looking through the window, he could see his keys still sitting in the ignition. He glowered at them, face pressed up against the glass.

"This day couldn't get fucking worse."

"You alright there, Arthur?" Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward. Francis. He didn't bother hiding his quandary, and instead growled out that he had locked his keys in the car. "Do you have a spare set at home?"

"Do I... what? Oh, yes, I suppose I do."

"Wonderful! I will drive you home!" Francis sounded much too cheery, "then I will bring you back here. Easy peasy!" Arthur did not want Francis to drive him home, to learn where exactly he lived, and to spend any amount of time with Francis in an enclosed space... but, without any other options, Arthur agreed. The whole ride to his house he spoke only to give directions and spent the rest of the time glaring out the window. Francis' car smelled like him.

"Is this your house? _C'est beau_! What a charming front garden!"

"Stay here, frog," Arthur bit out. He was too tired for this. "I'll be right back," he hauled himself from Francis' car, shuffled up his drive, and retrieved the spare key from under a flower pot after making sure no unseemly people were lurking in the neighborhood, watching. Once inside, he went about locating his spare car key. When he found it, he was startled to discover Francis standing in his front entry. "What are you doing? I thought I told you to stay in the car?"

"Your house is too cute, _mon chouchou_ , I couldn't help myself!" He was smiling brightly, his eyes annoyingly _shiny_. Arthur scowled. "I can't picture you living somewhere so quaint."

"It was my mothers." He shooed Francis from the house, almost shoving him out the front door, before turning to lock it again. Once in the car, he chose to ignore Francis' wide grin. They drove back to the office is odd silence before Francis asked, "who keeps the garden?"

"I do."

" _Vraiment_? Arthur!" Francis laughed, "you are full of surprises!" He was quiet for the remainder of the trip, except to bid Arthur a " _bonne nuit_ ," with a wave and more smiles once the Englishman was safely deposited next to his own vehicle, the door unlocked.

Arthur crawled in to bed almost immediately once he arrived home.

.

 _Wednesday_

He had no idea that getting undressed could be so sexy. The painfully slow movement of long fingers unbuttoning his suit jacket and sliding it from his shoulders. The feeling of his tie being gently tugged on then slipping free from his neck. Cool, teasing fingers trailing down his skin in the wake of the buttons of his dress shirt coming undone. The hot mouth on his collarbone, slowly kissing him as skilled hands unclasped his belt. He tangled his hands in long blonde hair as kisses were trailed down his abdomen, his pants falling around his ankles. Those hands gripped at his hips, fingers biting in to his flesh as that mouth, that tongue—

"Oh god, _Francis_!"

Arthur woke with a jolt, his whole body covered in an uncomfortable sweat, his breathing ragged and his heart racing. He lay still for a moment, catching his breath. It was a full minute before he realized that he was uncomfortably wet and sticky where he ought not to be, his cheeks burned in embarrassment, even though no one was around to notice. He had been a teenager the last time something like that had happened to him. He forced himself to get up and squashed the desire to hide his dirty bedclothes under his bed, instead he tossed them in his laundry hamper. Because he was an _adult_ and knew how to behave accordingly. He stood nude in the middle of his darkened bedroom for a moment, considering what to do next. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, 5:03am. His alarm would be going off in an hour, it hardly seemed worth it to go back to bed now. He didn't want to risk having another dream featuring Francis kneeling between his legs... He quickly decided to have a cold shower when he felt his blood rushing south.

After an extra long, bone-chilling shower, Arthur made it to the office with plenty of time to spare. He allowed himself a small smile of victory when he arrived to the shared office first – that rarely happened. He was determined to have a good day.

When Francis finally did arrive to work, much to Arthur's disappointment, he sashayed into the office, a lazy smile on his lips.

" _Bonjour, mon ami_!" he cried happily, twirling into his chair. "What a beautiful day, _non_?"

"You're awfully chipper this morning," Arthur did his best to forget about the dream that had awoken him early that morning. He did not need those kinds of images floating around in his head while he was supposed to be focused on his work.

" _Oui_! I had a spectacular evening last night. And a spectacular early morning," Francis winked, Arthur blushed. Francis leaned on his desk, chin in his hands, his eyes sparkling at Arthur. Arthur tried to ignore him and not notice his handsome features. He always seemed to glow when he had a good lay. This deeply irritated Arthur – even more so this morning. So far, this week was not turning out all that well.

"Perhaps you will finally put aside your promiscuous nature and settle down?"

Francis scoffed and waved his hand in the air, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, _non_ , _non_ , Arthur. She was lovely, the sex was enjoyable, but she could not," he vaguely gestured to all of his person, "even hope to tie this down. It will take a _different_ kind of person to do that." He winked again, and Arthur caught himself staring open-mouthed. He gave himself a mental shake and focused on his computer screen. Unsure of how to turn the conversation around and deliver a satisfying insult, he stayed his tongue.

"Passion is nice," Francis continued and Arthur could feel the Frenchman staring at him, "but I long for something more than that. Even _I_ want to find real _amour_. Write about that in your silly fiction piece." Ah, Arthur had nearly forgotten he needed to write something for the short-fiction section of the magazine. Dammit.

.

 _Thursday_

Thursday morning began even worse off than the other days in the week. Arthur was quite put-out when he went to start his car and nothing happened. He sat, dumbfounded, behind the wheel for a few minutes, unable to quite grasp the situation. He let loose several colourful swear words before calling for a cab. He did not have the time, nor the energy, to deal with a broken down car right now. He could arrange for it to be towed to a shop later.

He was late to work, only narrowly avoiding a scolding from his editor, and when he entered the office Francis was sitting in Arthur's chair.

"Arthur!" Francis cried happily, rushing to his feet, "I have been waiting _ages_ for you to finally turn up!"

"Stop being so dramatic, I'm only a half-hour late." Francis pouted. "Sit at your own damn desk, baguette."

"Why have you been late so often, Arthur?" His voice was so innocent Arthur froze in his descent to sitting in his chair. Why was he late so often? He couldn't very well say aloud that it was because dreams of Francis were keeping him up at night, so he wasn't sleeping well. He wasn't sure how exactly how it was Francis' fault the rest of his morning routine failed spectacularly over and over again, throwing him off his delicate balance; it was Francis' fault, though. He just couldn't explain it, yet.

He chanced a look in Francis' direction as he slowly finished lowering himself in to his chair. Francis was leaning across their desk, chin in his hand, the other twirling a piece of hair between his fingers. Arthur felt his face heat up like an egg in a frying pan as he recollected his dream, his own fingers knotting in that hair as Francis—he cleared his throat.

"I... don't... it's just been a rough week."

Francis smiled knowingly, which made Arthur feel uncomfortable, it was like he _knew_. They stared at each other for a moment and were interrupted from their own silent reveries by a knock at the door.

" _Ciao_ , gentlemen!" Feliciano, a mail-room employee, swirled into the room with as much flamboyance as Francis on a good day, "company-wide memo for you this morning! There's a mandatory writers meeting in the tenth floor board room at 12:30 this afternoon!" He was so cheerful to deliver bad news, Arthur wondered if he understood it was bad news at all. Arthur liked Feliciano. He was a burst of colour in an otherwise black-and-white day (other than Francis, of course). He was not always the most swift of characters, but he made up for that in spades with genuine contagious cheer that even brought a smile to Arthur's lips when in a sour mood. He had a narrow build and willowy limbs, hands often clasped tight in delight in front of his face. He had a mop of auburn hair, a single curl escaping the rest and protruding out the side of his head, and dazzling hazel eyes. All of this paired with his light laughter and Arthur could not help himself but to think the young man quite _cute_.

"Thank you, Feli," Arthur said warmly, accepting additional mail that the Italian held out for him. With a bow and a flourish, he sashayed from the room and on to the next.

Arthur did his best to try and write something for the fiction article he needed to complete by Friday, but he was at a loss and simply stared at the cursor blinking on his screen until he felt it was an appropriate time to go for lunch. He needed some normal in his week. He needed a friendly lunch with Kiku.

After lunch, Arthur found his way to the tenth floor for the meeting. The boardroom was already mostly full with milling employees when he got there, Roderich sitting at the head of the long table, flipping through whatever notes he intended on going over once the rest of the writing the staff arrived. Arthur made himself a cup of tea at the refreshment bar on the far end of the room before finding himself an empty chair, coincidentally across the table from Francis.

"Women's bodies are so lovely." Francis was saying to his friend Antonio, a freelance writer who mostly wrote recipes or restaurant reviews. Arthur tried not to eavesdrop as he sipped his tea and looked over the meeting's agenda provided in front of all the seats around the table. "They are soothing, soft, warm..." Arthur could _hear_ the wistful smile he knew full well was likely playing on his lips.

"And men?" he heard Antonio ask.

"Ah," Arthur glanced up over the rim of his mug in time to see Francis smirk, twirling his long blonde hair in his fingers. "let's just say, I have not met a woman who could give a blowjob better than a man."

Arthur's tea was suddenly spraying across the table.

.

"That was an exciting meeting, _non_?" Arthur did not appreciate the sparkle in Francis' eyes as he leaned across their shared desk, elbows on the table, hands outstretched with splayed fingers, like he was reaching out to Arthur.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"To me, it seemed you very nearly choked on your tea, _mon cher._ " He was making a show of inspecting the nails on one of his hands, now.

"I did not _choke_."

"Oho? Perhaps then it was in response to mine and Antonio's _private_ conversation?" How he was able to make his face look so innocent was beyond Arthur. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks, and he clenched his fists as he slumped into his chair and tried to look busy.

"Perhaps you should not discuss your frivolous promiscuity in such a _public_ place, where _innocent_ ears can _accidentally_ overhear."

" _Désolé_! I did not know you were so sensitive." Arthur stayed silent in response, not willing to be baited. He tried to focus on his writing, but could feel the Frenchman's blue eyes staring at him from over his monitor. He flicked his eyes up under furrowed brows to meet Francis' smiling ones. "Have you never had a man before, Arthur?" how could he look and sound so damned innocent when asking a question like that?

If Arthur didn't choke earlier that afternoon, he certainly was now. He spluttered, quite certain his face was turning several shades of red and purple.

"Of course not!" he practically shouted between violent coughs.

"Arthur!" Francis placed a hand on his chest in what he assumed was mock-shock, "I will be your first, if you like?" He smiled so sweetly at Arthur, his cheeks a very light shade of pink, twirling that damn hair in those damn fingers.

"Y-You're-" Arthur could not seem to think of anything to respond with, his face a furious shade of red, hands shaking, heart pounding in his chest. "You're a-a bloody wanker!" Francis laughed softly, ducking his head behind his own computer and out of Arthur's sight. "Keep your mouth shut, frog. I'm trying to work!"

Finally finding inspiration for his short fiction piece, he wrote a very angry story about a couple with severe sexual tension and no hope of release.

.

 _Friday_

Arthur's mood was positively volcanic by the time he got home late in the evening.

He had never seen Francis _mad_ before, but he was (unhappily) on the receiving end of an enraged Frenchman earlier that afternoon. The two butt heads all day, but the heat in the office from the air conditioner being broken had worn away at their nerves, so the fairly tame bickering dissolved into a heated screaming match. Arthur couldn't even remember how the argument started, or what exactly they were fighting about in the end.

Francis' face was flushed, and not from his usual charming flirtations or simply how damn hot their small office had become with the afternoon sun beating in through the windows. His eyes flashed with an emotion Arthur had never seen in him.

"Take that back, you _crétin_." Francis hissed.

"I most certainly will not."

The two were nearly at physical blows before someone came in and separated them – Feliciano, perhaps? Arthur couldn't recall. Francis stormed off, taking the remainder of the afternoon off while Arthur angrily typed at his keyboard, trying to get _some_ work done.

Every minute that Arthur sat dutifully at his desk and Francis' chair remained empty sank Arthur's mood ever deeper. The more time spent with his thoughts, the more time he had to consider the argument they had just had, and how, perhaps, he should have not said some of the things he had.

His insides warring between seething anger and savage guilt.

He wanted nothing more than to open the bottle of scotch he had in his study at home and drink himself in to a blissful coma.

He was stomping up the drive from his taxi, angry that he _still_ had to call a tow truck for his car, when he finally looked up and noticed the three bodies standing on his stoop.

"Lizzy?" He froze mid-stride when he recognized his sister. His anger melted away for only a moment before bubbling up again.

"Hey, Artie." She sounded sheepish. He hated it when she sounded sheepish... that usually meant...

"Hi, Uncle Art!" Arthur's eyes flickered down to the two small boys hiding behind their mother's legs. Arthur said nothing to them and simply blinked.

"Lizzy..." He hadn't seen his nephews since they were born. Elizabeth and Arthur had a fairly tumultuous relationship as children, neither never really growing to appreciate each other as adults, they had lead separate lives. So what they were doing here was beyond him, _and were those suitcases_?! "Was I expecting you?" he finally started walking to his door, ignoring the two pairs of eyes staring widely up at him.

"Ah, no..." Lizzy cleared her throat. "Listen, Artie, I can't stay long. I've already been waiting here for you a while."

"Aha?" He slipped past his sister and unlocked his door. He hoped to get inside and shut the door before anyone could follow him in. A small hand grabbed hold of his pants before he could quite make it inside.

"Arthur," Lizzy's voice was pleading, and Arthur finally looked up at her. "I'm going to miss my plane." He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that information. "I got a real sweet opportunity across the pond, Artie." Arthur blinked, not willing to look down at which of his nephews were pulling on his pants for attention. For some reason her story sounded familiar... "I can't take the boys with me just yet-"

"No." Arthur pulled his leg free and started to shuffle into the house.

"Artie, _please_."

"Where is their father?"

"Dear brother," she laughed nervously, "they have all of their things here. They are good boys, Artie." She bent down and kissed their foreheads, Arthur still refusing to look directly at either of them.

"Why does it feel like you're not hearing me when I say, ' _no_ '?"

"Be good for your uncle now, boys. Mommy loves you. I'll write you!" Lizzy gathered both her sons for a brief, tight hug before standing and leaning over them to quickly place a light kiss on Arthur's cheek. "Thank you Artie, I'll call with my information when my plane lands and I find my hotel," and before Arthur could protest further his sister turned on her heel and marched down his drive and into a waiting taxi – how had he missed the second cab when he pulled up to his house?

"Lizzie!" He called after his sister, "Wait." He jogged past his nephews and met his sister as she was ducking into the cab. He leaned on the roof and peered around the door before she could close it. "Lizzie, was that you that wrote to me looking for advice?" She had one hand on the door handle, her face turned to face him, half-smiling and silent. "EK. _Elizabeth Kirkland_." He shook his head, flabbergasted. He pushed away from the car and Lizzie shut it all the way. The cab pulled away from the curb and Lizzie waved enthusiastically from the rear window. She blew a kiss.

Arthur helplessly watched his sister get whisked away, not quite believing his luck.

"U-uncle Arthur?" A small voice said from somewhere near his knees.

Finally, Arthur looked down.

Two pairs of wide, blue eyes stared up at him, shocking blonde mops of hair on both their heads. He couldn't tell them apart let alone recall their names. One of them was putting on a brave face, but the other's bottom lip was quivering, eyes very quickly brimming with tears, clutching a large stuffed bear close to his chest. Arthur heaved a great sigh and said, "alright, then. Better come on inside." He slowly made his way back up the drive and pushed open his front door before reaching for their two small suitcases and hauling them indoors. "And remind me, what are your names again?"

"I'm Alfred and that's Matthew! But you can call me Alfie and him Mattie."

"Right."


	3. Chapter 3

**Life and Style**

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

Francis was not used to being so openly disliked.

He contemplated calling in to work Monday morning, blurry-eyed and hungover from a date with a bottle(s) of wine throughout the weekend; however, he decided against this, he needed to get more work done on his article (he wondered if last night's drinking could be considered a work expense...).

He arrived to work and put on his bravest face. Would Arthur be in already? Would he still be angry? Francis felt all together too exhausted to fight more today. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't hurt by Friday's events; but, perhaps he should apologize first to save himself from the possibility of a follow-up argument. Their normally petty bickering had progressively grown more personal – did Arthur actually feel that way about Francis? Or were his words merely a projection of the heat of the moment? Francis certainly didn't think Arthur was – _mon dieu_ , what had he called Arthur?

Francis rounded the corner and entered his shared office and his train of thought was immediately lost.

" _Les enfants_!" he cried, half in shock and half in delight.

Arthur spun around and caught Francis' eye – there was a beat of awkwardness between them before it was broken by a loud, "who are _you_?" Francis redirected his gaze down to the two boys standing in the middle of the small office. He knelt to their level and smiled happily.

" _Bonjour_! I am Francis! Who are you?"

"I'm Alfred. You talk funny."

"Hello, Alfred."

The second boy slowly peeked from around his brother, holding a white bear close to his chest. His face was adorably flushed, his voice just barely over a whisper, "I-I'm Matthew."

"Hello, _Matthieu_!" Francis hazarded a look at Arthur who was standing nearby, arms crossed against his chest and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He had certainly seen better days, Francis noticed. His eyes were glazed, shadowed by dark circles, his mouth frozen in a scowl. His shirt was mis-buttoned in more than once place, his tie not even done up, hanging loose around his neck.

"They're my nephews," Arthur sighed, Francis looked back down at the two boys.

"How is having stuffy, _old_ Arthur for an uncle? Is he terribly mean?" Alfred nodded, crossing his arms like Arthur, mimicking his scowl (perhaps it was an inherited trait?). Behind him, Matthew shook his head wildly, hugging his bear tighter. Francis smiled.

"No, Mr. Francis, sir," Matthew said quietly, stepping out from behind his brother. "He is very nice. He let me and Kuma sleep with him last night after we had a bad dream," he held up his bear.

"Did he, now?" Arthur hardly seemed the type. Francis saved the Brit the embarrassment of shooting him a smirk, the room was already crackling with his discomfort.

"Why is your hair so long?" Alfred suddenly asked, "are you a girl?"

" _Alfie_!" Arthur swooped in and picked up the taller boy, Francis threw back his head and laughed. "That was very rude, Alfred Jones."

"Oh, _non_ , _mon petit lapin_. I am a man!" Francis stood, dusting off his pants and smiling brightly at Alfred as Arthur sat him in his office chair.

"Oh," Alfred said looking sheepish, "I've only ever seen girls with hair like that. Like mummy!"

"I like it," Matthew said, softly tugging at Francis' pant leg. "I want hair like that too, Mr. Francis, sir." Arthur looked like was at his boiling point and for a moment Francis felt sorry for him.

"Boys, Francis and I have a lot of work we need to do. Do you remember what we talked about on the way here?"

"Yes, Uncle Art." the two boys chimed in unison.

"Right, there's good lads."

Matthew kept pulling on Francis' pant leg until he broke down and knelt again, eye level with the blonde-haired boy and his teddy bear. He shuffled right up to Francis and motioned him to come closer so he could whisper in his ear, "He told us we had to be very quiet and sit very still." Francis exaggerated his shock and Matthew continued, giggling, "I don't think Alfie will be able to be good, though!"

"Arthur..." Francis looked up at the Englishman, "perhaps I could take the boys to the Children's Lit Department?" Arthur's eyebrows knit together in thought. "If they are here all day, I think Lukas might have a thing or two to entertain them."

Lukas Bondevik, a dead-pan and seemingly emotionless man, was hard to imagine as such a highly regarded author of children's books; however, he had an imagination that ran just as wild as Arthur's. He wrote fantastical fairy tales, dreaming up giant trolls, beautiful princesses, fierce dragons, and great child heroes who went on grand adventures. Between Lukas and some of the guys in the art department on the same floor, Francis knew two young boys like Alfred and Matthew would be well entertained. Arthur gave a short nod, looking relieved.

"Come, boys!" Francis stood, hand outstretched to Matthew, Alfred slid from Arthur's office chair and skipped to join Francis and his brother.

"Kuma, too?" Matthew asked.

"Absolutely! I wouldn't _dream_ of leaving him behind with _Uncle Art_."

Francis took Matthew's hand, who held out his bear to Alfred and demanded he take the bear's other paw, and he led them out of the office and towards the elevators.

"Don't forget your manners, boys!" Arthur called after them.

.

Lukas did not look up when there was a tap at his office door, and simply raised a single, slender finger to indicate whomever was standing there to _shush, wait_. He was in the middle of a stroke of genius. He heard a soft, " _shh, we have to wait quietly for a minute._ "

Yes. Be quiet.

Lukas returned to his work, swift tap-tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. After a few minutes he heard the distinct frustrations of a child, " _when can I talk again?_ " followed by an exaggerated, " _shh, Alfie_!"

Lukas heaved an exasperated sigh, his writing would clearly have to wait. He rolled his chair away from his desk and glared in the direction of his doorway, removing a pair of slender glasses from his face and hooking them on to the collar of his shirt. "Ah, Bonnefoy," he said, recognizing the man standing there, two small children holding each of his hands, "What's all this about?"

"Lukas! These are Arthur's nephews, Alfred and _Matthieu_!" Lukas blinked, expression unchanging, "I thought that they might like to hang out down here with you for a bit, today,"

"No." Lukas was about to roll his chair back to his desk when both boys let go of Bonnefoy and ran forward, hanging on to his knees.

"Will you please tell us a story?" One of the boys asked softly, his hair was fair and he was clinging to a stuffed bear.

"One with trolls!" The brother said excitedly, his hair a dirty blonde, giant blue eyes shining with excitement, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"No!" The one with the bear cried, "I'm scared of trolls."

"Quiet, Mattie," his brother hissed behind a hand, "Mr. Francis said we had to ask for one with trolls or we won't get a story at all!"

The bear was raised to cover a whimpering face. His brother continued, softer, "it's okay, Mattie. I'll hold your hand if you get scared."

"O-Okay," Mattie said after a moment of consideration, the bear lowering to reveal a pair of soft blue eyes, staring wide-eyed at Lukas. "I'd like a story with trolls, please!" he cried out with sudden enthusiasm.

Lukas blinked. He could feel his cheeks heat up and he shot a withering look in Bonnefoy's direction. Damn that cursed Frenchman.

"Fine." He rolled his chair away from the boys and stood. "We have to go to the castle, though. This office is no good for stories."

The 'castle' was what everyone affectionately called an old boardroom that had been changed into a play area. The room started its transformation when the art department began painting a fantastical mural on one of the walls of rolling hills, a forest smudged in the distance, a castle on one side and a shining lake on the other. There were fluffy clouds dotting a great, blue sky that crawled its way on to the ceiling. There were little red and white mushrooms along the bottom, pretty wildflowers with fairies peeking out from behind petals and leaves. There was a smiling imp hanging from the branches of a tree next to the lake, and a mermaid sunning herself on the shore. There were colourful parrots flying in the sky, and a giant troll lumbering near the forest in the distance. The mural seemed to change every time Lukas saw it, the art department constantly adding to it, or painting over sections and redoing them on their lunch breaks. In the bottom right corner were the signatures of all the artists who had worked on the painting, the most prominent, a thick-scrawled 'MATHIAS'

Then, there was the giant cardboard castle. At some point, someone had obtained a new fridge and brought the giant box to work. The art department immediately took it upon themselves to cut and paint it into a tower, English ivy twisting up the painted stone bricks. More and more boxes had slowly been added to it over time until they had a complete castle, with doors and windows cut out so children could go inside and play. Any additions to the castle seemed to happen in the dead of night when everyone had left the office building. While there was no mark as to who created the palace, it was common knowledge that the whole thing was built by the stern-looking Berwald Oxenstierna, and all the delicate flowers, ivy, and bricks were painted by the cheery Tino Vainamoinen.

Needless to say, the entire boardroom was taken over by props and toys adding to the charm of the cardboard castle. It was no longer used for stuffy meetings, but for readings when authors (like Lukas) needed to test story concepts on actual kids. The long meeting table had been replaced with low, brightly coloured tables with an array of mismatched, colourful chairs and giant beanbags to sit in. There were rolls of paper and boxes of crayons for artistic children, a chest of stuffed toys and puppets, and another with costumes and silly hats.

Alfred and Matthew squealed in delight as soon as they saw the castle through the glass doors leading to the boardroom.

"Can we?" Matthew asked looking up at Bonnefoy, who nodded, Alfred was already hauling open the heavy doors and skipping inside. Matthew was hot on his heels, teddy bear flailing along behind him.

"...So cute." Lukas finally sighed. He _loved_ cute things.

"Right?!" Bonnefoy practically squealed. "You'd hardly know they were related to Arthur." He chuckled and clapped Lukas on the shoulder, "I owe you a coffee, Lukas. I appreciate you looking after them." Lukas nodded in reply before allowing his face to relax into a bright smile, rolling up his sleeves he followed the boys into the castle room.

"Alright! _Now_ we can have our story."

.

Francis returned to the office and shut the door, which normally stood wide open, with a quiet _click_ behind him. Arthur, who had been standing uneasily by the window, turned to face him when the door closed.

"Francis," his voice was pleading. Francis wandered slowly towards him until they were standing toe-to-toe. "What on earth am I going to do? Lizzie e-mailed me this morning." Francis began to absentmindedly undo the buttons down Arthur's shirt and properly button it up again. He gave the appropriate sounds to confirm that he was listening as Arthur prattled off about his nephews. "Remember that fan who wrote in a couple weeks ago? That was Lizzie. _EK_. Elizabeth Kirkland. Dear God, Francis, I don't know what to do with two young boys."

"What did she say in her e-mail?" Francis asked as he brushed his hands down the front Arthur's shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"That she wanted to talk to me before she left but couldn't find the courage and that she is sorry." Arthur heaved a sigh and shut his eyes, falling silent while Francis began to work on Arthur's tie. His hands froze for a moment near Arthur's neck, suddenly acutely aware of how close it felt between them. He slowly, painstakingly, continued tying the tie. Arthur either hadn't noticed or didn't mind, Francis wasn't sure which he preferred to be the case. "She doesn't know when she will be coming back," Arthur opened his eyes again just as Francis slid the knot of the tie up to Arthur's throat. He left his hands resting on Arthur's shoulders and looked the Brit in the eye. Francis was not used to helping people get dressed feeling so intimate, normally he was doing just the opposite. "What am I going to do?" Arthur asked again, Francis' heart fluttered in his chest.

"I don't know," he swallowed, trying to clear the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Did you just... _dress_ me?" Francis took this as his queue to back off and quickly retreated, clearing his throat, stepping away from Arthur and sliding in to his office chair by the window. He wiggled the mouse of his computer, the screen slowly awakening. He could feel Arthur's eyes boring into his back.

"You just looked like you needed some help." He hoped that would suffice and Arthur would leave him be. He did not want to answer any difficult or delicate questions about anything to do with Arthur right now - he was still working it out for himself.

"I'm too tired to question your motives, Frenchy." Arthur moved around their desks and sat down in his own chair, "so thank you."

They worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

.

Arthur needed routine in his life like a fish needed water to breathe. Without it, he felt like he was drowning. However, considering the direction his life had suddenly taken, he couldn't help but wonder if drowning wouldn't be such a bad fate after all.

He could hear his nephews arguing loudly in the guest room next door.

He lay in his bed and stared at the darkened ceiling, counting back from 20. When he reached zero, he took a deep, calming breath, then banged his fist on the wall, shouting for the two boys to "knock it off, already!"

His mornings, which used to be so peaceful, were now filled with two boys he couldn't keep up with. One kept misplacing his pants and underwear, and while Arthur chased him with clothes for the day, the other was climbing on the kitchen counters looking for breakfast. When Arthur rescued the small boy from certain death, the other was peeling off all of the clothes Arthur just put on him and streaking through the house, yodeling. No more pleasant showers, taking his time dressing himself, carefully shaving. No more simple, quiet breakfast, reading the newspaper and admiring the songbirds out of the kitchen windows, hungry cats his only concern. Now he had a bathroom painted in urine, skinned knees, spilled milk, and screaming.

He was quite certain he would not have survived the first week with the boys if it had not been for Lukas Bondevik, children's author, entertainer, and kid chef extraordinaire. He was a wizard with Matthew and Alfred, who had affectionately began to call him Uncle Lukas. After their first visit to his office in the children's lit department, he brought the boys back to Arthur's office and offered to help him out with dinner. After he witnessed the mess that Arthur's house had become in just a few short days, he had come by after work every day for the entire week. He made macaroni, he got them to bathe in the evenings, and for him they put on their pajamas and marched to bed without a single peep of protest.

If only Lukas were here in the _mornings_. Arthur banged on the wall again. When silence did not shortly follow, he groaned and forced himself up and out of bed.

He threw open the guest bedroom door and was immediately assaulted by a pillow thrown at his head. Alfred, completely nude, was jumping on the bed holding Matthew's bear over his head in victory. Matthew was sitting on the floor, wailing, cheeks wet from tears and wearing only a pair of Pull-Ups.

"What in the name of Queen Victoria is going on here?!"

Matthew spoke first, "U-uncle Arthur, he stole Kuma from me and won't give him back. Kuma doesn't like heights! He's scared!"

"Matthew called me a mean name, first!" Alfred interjected, still jumping on the bed.

"I did _not_!" Matthew wailed, sobbing. "I-it was _Kuma_!" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not know how to deal with this.

He wasn't quite sure how he managed the situation, but he got both boys to settle and into clothes for the day. He would have to do laundry again, soon. He never understood why mothers complained of never-ending laundry until now. Laundry had always been one of his favourite chores; now, he felt like he was washing clothes every day. He wasn't even sure what half the stains he scrubbed out were even from. How did they get _so_ dirty so fast? It was a mystery.

Both boys ate cereal for breakfast, Arthur didn't have time to eat himself, and then he packed them both into a taxi for the drive to work. Alfred kept pulling on Mattie's hair, Mattie kept hitting Alfred in the face with his teddy bear. Arthur kept thinking that this was too much excitement before he had a cup of tea.

He still needed to get his damn car fixed.

Once at work, Lukas met Arthur at the door and took both boys by the hand and lead them towards the art department without a word. Arthur found his way to his editor's office and knocked softly on the door.

It was a nice office, albeit a touch gloomy. His over-sized desk sat at the far end of the room across from the door, and Roderich sat there, back to a giant window dressed in heavy, plush curtains drawn back by braided, golden cords. The walls on either side of the desk were lined with solid bookshelves, stuffed full with volumes ranging in age from falling apart to brand new. The top of his desk was quite plain: his hands were clasped in front of him atop whatever manuscript he was reading, a red pen at the ready beside him. There was a green glass lamp on one side, and two simple golden picture frames on the other. The first frame, the larger of the two, held a picture of a smiling woman with long brown hair decorated with flowers. The smaller frame was sitting face down. Arthur had never seen the picture it held, but had witnessed Roderich looking at it before replacing it to its current position.

Across from the desk and beside the door was a very large oil painting; you could not see it unless you turned to face the door; it was always the last thing you'd see before you left Roderich's office. It was a scene of a large grand piano, a dark haired man in a long coat perched on the cushioned bench with his back to the viewer and playing with hands clad in dark gloves. There was a silver-haired man with a pale complexion leaning casually on the top, his head turned away, but visible enough to see the large grin spread across his face; despite his hair colour, he looked quite young. He was wearing a dark suit, the tie loosened from around his neck and the first few buttons of his undershirt open, revealing a heavy cross necklace. The whole scene looked as is if it were captured in secret, hiding behind the curtains of the stage, stumbling upon something natural and un-posed. The bottom right corner of the painting had the signature of the artist, which Arthur could not make out, followed by the title, 'Symphonies'. Arthur couldn't help but feel he had the painting hung there so he would see it all day long, the colours changing in whatever light was streaming through the window.

"Mr. Kirkland, I was expecting you." Roderich broke the silence as Arthur shut the door behind him and made his way to the empty plush chair opposite his editor.

"You were?" He asked as he sank into the seat. Roderich simply raised an eyebrow. "Ah, well, I've had some trouble come up." He wasn't sure what exactly to say or how to explain his situation to his boss; he didn't really want to be having this conversation.

"So I've heard," Roderich sighed and unfolded his hands, running one of them through his hair and leaning back. His relaxed demeanor made Arthur feel a lot more at ease, but did not make him feel better about the next words he had to say.

"I can't... I have to take some time off, I'm afraid," Roderich hummed, "I'm not certain how _much_ time, to be honest. My nephews-"

"Alfred and Matthew, yes?" Roderich leaned forward again, lacing his fingers together over the manuscript, "I have heard."

Arthur nodded, "that being the case, I think it would be best if I handed in my resignation." Roderich arched a brow at him again.

"I think not, Mr. Kirkland."

"Pardon?"

"You are a fantastic writer and nobody has opinions quite like you. I will allow you to go on leave, I have already found a replacement that will work well enough. You may write from home as a freelance writer and turn in what you can. But, and hear me loud and clear Arthur Kirkland, you will return to this office once you have handle on your... _personal_ business." Arthur felt his jaw drop open. He had not expected this conversation to go quite like that – he was thrilled! He hadn't wanted to quit, anyway; he simply did not see an alternative in order to take care of his two young nephews.

"Yes, sir!" He rose to his feet and Roderich extended a hand for a shake, he smiled.

"I assume you desire this leave to be in effect immediately?"

"That would be helpful."

"I figured that might be the case. I've already arranged for your replacement to start work as early as tomorrow." Arthur wasn't sure how Roderich had been so perceptive and couldn't decide if he felt worried that he'd sensed his near-resignation and arranged for a replacement writer, or relieved that he didn't have to worry about what would become of his career after a brief hiatus. He made his way to the door and paused, his hand on the knob.

"Sir?" He looked over his shoulder; Roderich was picking up his red pen, uncapping it and flipping to a marked spot in the manuscript in front of him, he looked at Arthur over the rims of his glasses and blinked, "is that you? In this painting?" He had wanted to ask as long as he'd been working there, but never found the courage until now.

Roderich was silent for a long moment and Arthur wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut. "Yes," was the short reply that eventually came, Roderich's expression drawn, as if lost in thought, "and one of my very dearest friends."

"What's his name?" Arthur couldn't help himself.

"Is that all, Mr. Kirkland?" Arthur pursed his lips and nodded, excusing himself from the office.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 **AN:** I really liked the idea of Roderich as the boss, rather than Ludwig. Besides, I have plans for Mr. Germany.

The idea of the oil painting came to me while I was at work. It made me quite sad to think about, and I struggled with a title for it. I wanted it to convey something along the lines that Roderich would/has composed symphonies for Gilbert. But, he does not play anymore (that we know of - he's an editor and head of a publishing company, not a musician). The picture that is face-up on his desk is of Hungary.

This chapter was terribly hard to write. My head is engrossed in my mediverse stories, so I'm sorry if it reads as a bit scattered. This is that in-between chapter before things start happening. At least, that's how it feels to me! hahaha

The original scene with Lukas was written from Francis' POV in my first draft, but I changed it last minute. I love being inside Lukas' head.

 **Please be kind, drop a review!** :)


	4. Chapter 4

**LIFE AND STYLE**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

 **AN:** To the lovely guest reviewer ( **Ali6132** ) who asked some good questions, I thought I would I would share my response here:

I'm careful not to specify an exact setting for this story – half the time I envision it to be in England, the other half in Canada/USA. I live in Canada and have never BEEN to England, so I try not to name specific places so you can imagine whatever setting you would like. It could be in Canada, or in America... doesn't matter. Arthur and his sister ARE English - perhaps having moved when they were small. If they are in England, Lizzie moves to the USA/Canada, and vice versa, for her career.

Alfred and Matthew are not twins. I struggled with what ages to make them, but my headcanon would be that Alfie is about a year older than Mattie. Their ages are somewhere in the 3-5 years. Young enough to not be in school, old enough to talk and run around and be very opinionated.

* * *

Francis did his best to push Arthur from his thoughts over the weekend, but was finding it more and more difficult as time went on. He wondered how he was coping with two young boys suddenly living with him. He thought back on how he had slowly unbuttoned his shirt and back up again. His hands still felt hot from when he ran them down Arthur's front, feeling Arthur beneath his thin shirt. Francis was quite accustomed to being attracted to both men and women, but he was not used to the idea of being attracted to an _Englishman_ , specifically _Arthur_.

When Monday morning rolled around, Francis was surprised to discover Arthur not in his chair by the time he arrived. The hours seemed to creep by, painfully slow, and Arthur still did not come in for the day. It was noon when Francis wandered out of his office to find someone to talk to.

"Have you seen Arthur today?" He asked his friend, Antonio, on his way to the bathroom.

"Hey, bud," Antonio paused, "no, not yet. Is he not in today?"

Francis shook his head, "no, it's unusual, _non_?" Antonio shrugged and ducked into the bathroom, leaving Francis to wander, hands stuffed in his suit pants, deep in thought.

He eventually found himself standing in front of Mr. Edelstein's office, the golden plaque on the door shining brightly and proudly declaring 'RODERICH EDELSTEIN' below that, 'EDITOR'. Francis knocked lightly before opening it after hearing a soft, "enter," from inside.

He slid into a smooth, studded leather chair in front of Roderich's oversized walnut desk.

Roderich raised an elegant eyebrow at Francis, but said nothing, folding his hands on top of his paperwork. If there was ever a face Francis would want to lick, Roderich's was it. His skin was smooth, a small beauty mark just to the left of a relaxed mouth, his nose elegantly curved, two deep amber eyes framed by long eyelashes behind thick-rimmed rectangle glasses. His hair was a dark brown, perfectly combed, aside from one stubborn curl that seemed to have a mind of its own.

"Can I help you, Bonnefoy?" Roderich finally asked, his tone neutral. Roderich expected only the best from his employees without being too hard.

"Has Arthur been through here today by chance?" Both of Roderich's eyebrows now raised into his hairline.

"Kirkland?" He rubbed his chin, narrowing his eyes at Francis, "he turned in his required articles for the issue release on Friday afternoon. He requested to take some vacation time."

"He did?"

"Did he not tell you these things? He requested to be placed as a freelance writer until further notice." Francis felt like he got punched in the chest. Why wouldn't Arthur tell him something like that? Their relationship did not warrant a secret handshake and a clubhouse, but surely they were closer than just casual coworkers – at least, to Francis they were. He didn't go out of his way to annoy anyone else in the building, that had to count for something.

"What of his desk?" Francis asked, his stomach sliding in to his shoes.

"Ah, his temporary replacement will use it until he returns." Francis pursed his lips, Roderich pushed his glasses up his nose with a single finger. "He should be arriving soon, actually." Great. Francis excused himself and meandered back to his office.

By the time he arrived there was a large, blonde man standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

" _Oui_? Can I help you?"

The hulking man slowly turned, affixing a piercing gaze at Francis. He had shockingly blonde hair, neatly slicked back, and a icy blue eyes that reminded Francis of fresh snow in an early winter evening. His square jaw was firmly set in a concerned frown. His dark brown suit was neatly pressed and full of trim angles, not a crease or thread out of place.

" _Ja, hallo,_ I am Mr. Kirkland's replacement. Which is his desk?" Francis waved his hand in its direction and watched as the large man immediately sat himself in Arthur's chair, placed his briefcase neatly on top of Arthur's desk, and began to pull out a small laptop and several notebooks. He got himself neatly situated before looking back up at Francis.

They blinked at each other for a moment before Francis found his voice and extended his hand in greeting, "Francis Bonnefoy,"

" _Ja_ , I know who you are." Francis faltered, unsure of how exactly to proceed, then the man reached out and engulfed his hand in a warm embrace, "Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt." This man did _not_ seem the type to write articles for a home and lifestyle magazine.

By mid-afternoon, Ludwig and Francis had exchanged only a handful of words in brief, halting conversation. The only time Ludwig paused for more than a moment to look up from his work was when Feliciano came by the bring in the mail.

" _Ciao_ , Francey!" he called as he swirled into the office, "I have your- _oh_!" Feli turned to Ludwig and smiled brightly, " _Prestante_! Who is this?"

"Ludwig Beilschmidt, Arthur's replacement while he is on leave." Francis explained not bothering to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "This is Feliciano Vargas," he explained to the German man, who was looking rather dazed.

" _Ve_?! Where is Arthur?"

"He thought it best to take some time off in order to deal with family matters," Ludwig offered, cheeks warming to a rather alarming shade of pink. Francis was shocked the man could string more than three words together in a sentence, then even more dumbfounded that Ludwig seemed to know more about _his_ office-mate than he did.

"Ohh," Feli bounced on his heels, rubbing his chin in thought before bending at the waist with his hands on his hips so he was eye-level with the German, "that is too bad. But, I am glad that you are his replacement!" And then, like the whirlwind that he was, Feli breezed out of the office with a cheerful, " _arrivederci_!"

.

Francis was got more work done in a handful of days sharing an office with Ludwig than he had in the few months he had shared with Arthur. The office seemed forever cast in a busied silence. Not that Ludwig was unfriendly. He warmed up after a few days, and their awkward conversations, albeit few and far between, were a lot more flowing and cordial.

Francis missed Arthur and his petty insults. He made the day so much more entertaining, to have someone to pick on, argue with, and to politely (occasionally) discuss whatever they were currently working on.

" _Ciao_ , Francey, Luddy!" Feli popped his head in to the office before twirling in dramatically. Francis smiled warmly in greeting and noted how Ludwig froze in his focused writing before attempting to look casually up at Feli, who beamed at the German.

"I've got some mail for you, here's Arthur's," Feli handed Ludwig a stack of envelopes held together by an elastic band, "and Francis! You got a package!"

" _Pourquoi_? Really?" Feli ducked out of the office to his mail cart just outside the door and returned again, a narrow brown box cradled in his arms.

"What is it?" Feli asked, leaning on Ludwig's shoulders as Francis gingerly took the box.

There was no return address so he grabbed a pen and stabbed at the packing tape, ripping it open. A small note fell out and inside was a bottle of wine.

"Ooh!" Feli cooed, practically pushing Ludwig's face in to the desk as he leaned across for a closer look. "Francis!"

 _'Mr. F. Bonnefoy;_

 _I have thoroughly enjoyed your Haute Cuisine column, especially the series on wine pairings._

 _It would give me a great honor if you would consider mentioning our wine in any upcoming wine pairing articles you may write in the future._

 _I have sent to you one of my favorite red wines, and I particularly enjoy it with beef in a reduction sauce._

 _Please, do not hesitate to contact my assistant directly if you require additional samples or to try any of our other fine wines._

 _Sincerely,'_

The note was signed by the owner of a prestigious winery with a flourish, the contact information to his office listed at the bottom of the page. Francis plucked the bottle of wine from the box and gasped.

" _Mon dieu_ , this is...!"

Ludwig blinked and Feli looked impressed, wiggling with excitement he could barely contain.

"That is a very generous gift, Francis!" Feli cried.

Francis loved wine, but a bottle of this caliber he was not sure what to do with. It was too fancy to drink alone; he was unsure with whom to share it. As much of an interest Feli and Ludwig had in it, both leaning across the desk curiously, Feli reaching out to touch the bottle, Francis wasn't sure he wanted to share it with either of them. Antonio would not be so able to fully appreciate such a fine wine, he thought, and he wasn't that close with many others in the office. He thought of Lukas or any of the guys in the art department, but when you invite one out, all the others are sure to follow. He stared at the label and thought for a while. There was only one other person he could think of that he wouldn't mind sharing such a fancy thing with, but he wasn't certain it was a good idea. With no other options, however, since he refused to drink it alone, he smiled up at Feli and Ludwig and slid the wine back into the box it came in. Feli did not bother to hide the disappointment on his face as Francis packed the wine away; Ludwig looked indifferent and more than a bit flustered at the close proximity of the Italian draping himself over his broad shoulders.

He would share the wine with Arthur.

However, Francis did not go to Arthur's house that night or the next. In fact, it took him the remainder of the week to talk himself in to going at all.

Friday morning rolled around and he decided that that night would be it.

"Francis," he told his reflection in his bathroom mirror in the morning. "Pull yourself together. You're just visiting a coworker and sharing a bottle of $1200 wine. No big deal."

The butterflies in his stomach disagreed, it _was_ a big deal.

He double and triple-checked his appearance before leaving for work.

At some point in the day Francis realized he could not simply bring wine over to an Englishman's house and assume he had the right food to pair with it. The man was _British_ , after all. Much of his afternoon was then consumed with browsing the internet for recipes he could easily whip up in someone else's kitchen.

.

He was standing at Arthur's front door, arms laden with grocery bags, bottle of wine securely clutched in one hand, when he was overcome by a sensation he did not expect – _fear_.

What was he thinking, showing up uninvited to Arthur's house? What if Arthur wouldn't let him in? Examining their relationship, this seemed a highly plausible idea. He was about to turn around and sneak back home when there was a resounding crash followed by screaming from inside.

Without thinking, Francis tried the door handle; finding it to be unlocked he pushed the door open calling, " _Bonjour_? Arthur, are you alright?"

"Arthuuuu _uuur_!" shrieked one of the boys, "Help!"

"Bloody hell!" came Arthur's voice from somewhere inside.

"Nooo!"

Francis kicked open the door the rest of the way and hurried inside, dropping his grocery bags on the floor and placing down his wine gently. Once through the entryway, the air started to smell distinctly of burning and there was an angry cloud of smoke rolling out of what Francis assumed was the kitchen.

"Arthur?" Francis called again, picking his way through a toy-strewn sitting room towards the smoky doorway. "Where are you? _Mon dieu_!"

Francis coughed, waving the air in front of his face, eyes watering from the smoke – the fire alarm started to scream.

"Francis?! What on earth are you doing here?" Arthur was standing over the oven, black smoke seeping from the shut door, desperate to escape. Arthur was leaning against it, trying to keep more smoke from filling the room, one hand inside a blackened oven mitt, the other holding a broom. The floor was a disaster of some sort of batter and broken glass, one of the boys – Alfred – was covered head-to-toe in flour, sitting right in the centre of the mess looking distressed.

Matthew stood frozen on the counter, mid-reach for something in the upper cupboards.

"I just heard screaming –"

"Bloody hell, am I glad to see you."

Everything that seemed momentarily frozen in the kitchen slid back into motion.

Alfred began crying loudly, Arthur was no longer able to contain the cough of smoke coming from the oven, and as if it was happening in slow motion, Matthew teetered –

Francis leapt forward, feet sliding in whatever was on the floor, arms outstretched to catch the small boy whose eyes were wide in shock as his stocking feet slipped off the counter. Francis caught him and held him tight to his chest as he crashed to the floor, making sure he took the impact of the fall.

"Francis!"

" _Merde_ , Arthur! Do something about that alarm!" He released Matthew, who was looking up at him with wonder in his eyes. "Are you alright?" Matthew nodded and Francis struggled to his own feet.

Alfred was still screaming on the floor, but the shrill alarm fell silent. Francis threw open the patio door, removed his suit jacket, and began beating at the smoke in the air, trying to get it flowing towards the open door. Arthur hurried back, kneeling beside Alfred.

"Alfred, what is – oh!" Francis turned in time to see Arthur crumple to the floor right in to the goopy mess beside his wailing nephew, who began to cry harder. Matthew started to whimper from the corner of the kitchen where Francis had left him. This evening was not going the way Francis had planned.

Alfred had an angry red line slashed across the palm of his hand which he was holding out for Francis to see, thin lines of blood running down his arm.

Francis dropped his coat, went to Alfred, and picked him up out of the mess on the floor. He cringed when Alfred wrapped his little arms around him, smearing blood on his crisp, white shirt.

" _Mattieu_ , are you hurt?" still whimpering, he shook his head, Francis gave him an encouraging smile. "You are very brave. Do you know where your uncle keeps his band-aids?" Matt nodded, "Wonderful, do you think you can bring them to me?" The blonde boy dashed out of the room, avoiding the glass and puddles of goop on the floor. Francis sat Alfred on the counter and searched for a dish towel, finding one, he dampened it in the sink and pressed it to Alfred's hand. He stopped crying, eyes red and shiny, and sniffled as he watched.

"Uncle Arthur?" He looked up at Francis, "I-I-I killed him!" his bottom lip quivered, Francis glanced over his shoulder at the motionless body on the floor before responding, " _non, mon petit lapin_! He will be alright. Hold this here, sit very still, _oui_? I will make sure Uncle Art is okay."

Alfred nodded, sniffing.

Francis carefully made his way to the man on the floor and knelt down beside him. He cradled Arthur's head in his hand as he gently rolled him onto his back, with his other hand he swiped the batter that was smeared on his cheeks and clumping in his hair.

His eyes fluttered open, the breath in Francis' chest hitched. He was momentarily caught up in their striking shade of green; he was reminded of new buds of leaves, twirling open at the first sign of spring melting away the crisp, winter air. The colour itself was rather innocent and new, curious; the emotion that flashed through them, however, was startled.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in my kitchen, frog?" Arthur very suddenly asked, shattering whatever peaceful illusion Francis had just created in his head.

"Rescuing you, apparently," he offered a smirk as Arthur pushed himself to a sitting position. The smoke had mostly cleared from the room, only a haze lingering near the ceiling.

Matthew bounded into the kitchen holding a first aide kit above his head triumphantly and Alfred was perched wide-eyed on the counter.

"Dear God, did I faint?"

Francis helped Arthur to his feet and the two of them began putting the kitchen back in to order. Francis cleaned up Alfred, giving his 'owie' a light kiss on the band-aid at Alfred's request (Arthur refused) while Arthur started to clean the floor.

"I actually came to make you dinner," Francis said as he washed his hands. "I heard all the commotion and just let myself in, _d_ _é_ _sol_ _é_."

"Dinner?" Arthur wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and continued to gingerly pick up pieces of glass from the floor. "Given how my afternoon has been going, I'd happily accept any help I can get tonight." Francis blinked; that hardly seemed like a response he'd expect to receive from the Brit. Smiling, he couldn't help but think the two boys were changing his prickly personality for the better.

Once the kitchen was sufficiently tidy, Arthur put a movie on for the kids, and Francis began dinner preparations. He fetched his groceries from the hall and unloaded them on the counter. Arthur directed him to the appropriate cupboards when he needed something (" _Cher_ , where are your cutting boards and sharp knives?" Arthur pointed them out. "I said _sharp_ knives, _non_? These are terrible." Arthur sighed and scowled, Francis said, "remind me to bring my own set next time,").

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Arthur asked from the kitchen table. He had unrolled a newspaper and was sipping on a cup of tea looking quite relaxed.

" _Non_ ," Francis shook his head, pausing from slicing onions to look over at Arthur, "let us not already forget the mess I walked into," he laughed. Arthur looked like he was fighting back a scathing retort, but Francis turned away and continued to slice onions. After a minute he heard the newspaper rustle as Arthur read. Francis added the onions to a pan with a tablespoon of butter; while they were browning, he sliced beef into thin strips. Once the meat was cooking he peeled and cubed potatoes, adding them to a large pot to boil. Next, he prepped a garden salad, adding fresh thyme, basil, and oregano to crisp butter, green, and red leaf lettuce. He topped it with tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, and shredded carrots. He was content working in silence while he knew Arthur relaxed, reading the paper, occasionally staring wistfully out the window at his back garden. Francis felt quite natural in the whole situation, which then made him feel quite unnatural. He tried to brush it off, to not dwell on the way his stomach wound into a knot when he considered for whom he was cooking. He also did his best to ignore the way his pulse quickened when he caught himself staring at Arthur from the corner of his eye, enjoying the serene expression that settled into his tired face as he sipped on his tea, one leg crossed neatly over the other, reading.

He was straining the potatoes into the sink, frowning at how the steam must be mussing up his hair, when Arthur broke the comfortable silence.

"I've been pretty lucky since the boys arrived," he said, Francis hummed in response, dumping the potatoes back into the pot so he could mash them. "Lukas has been over almost every night to help me," Francis' caught himself before he dropped the pot of potatoes to the floor. Carefully, he placed them firmly on the counter, out of harm's way.

"Oh?" he asked through clenched teeth. His tone sounded suspiciously jealous in his own ears. He rifled through drawers until locating a potato masher, trying very hard not to slam the doors closed.

"Yeah, actually, if you hadn't suggested taking the boys to the Children's Lit Department, we never would have met! I mean, I knew who he was, but we really only started talking because of you." Francis said nothing. "We have a lot more in common than I thought. And the boys adore him – they call him _Uncle_ Lukas," Arthur chuckled.

"Uncle... Lukas?" Francis tried to squash the jealousy bubbling in his gut, "he's here... almost _every_ night?"

Arthur hummed, "yeah. He's been a wonderful help. I'm pretty sure I would have shipped the two of them to their mother in a crate by the end of the last week." Francis wasn't sure what to say; he never thought he'd have to worry about Lukas encroaching on his office-mate – he could have sworn the man was immune to any form of romance and charm. He never seemed to give anyone special attention, and he was quick to brush off any and all of Francis' attempts to flirt with him (and he had tried very hard, not in serious pursuit of any sort of relationship,but simply out of curiosity). Francis did not like the way Arthur's face lit up when he talked about the stoic author.

He hardly seemed Arthur's type, after all.

Arthur continued to babble about Lukas, his newspaper lying forgotten on the table. He talked about the troubles he faced with the boys in their first week of living with him and all the help _precious Lukas_ gave him. He talked about the e-mails he received from his sister and the frustrations that stemmed from them. He talked about how he was happy he didn't have to go to work anymore, but he also didn't have to give up his career. He never once mentioned being sad that he wouldn't have to see Francis during the week.

Francis handed Arthur a stack of plates and he automatically took them, clearing then setting the table, still chatting. Francis had no idea he could talk so much without getting angry.

"Arthur, where do you keep your wine glasses?" Francis cut in to the Brit's current anecdote and Arthur raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, fetching two crystal glasses from a hutch in the formal dining room.

"Boys! Dinner!" Arthur called, settling himself back into his chair, the brothers came bouncing in, smelling the air happily.

"Where is Uncle Lukas?" Matthew asked quietly, the pan Francis was rinsing in the sink fell with a clatter.

" _D_ _é_ _sol_ _é_ , I lost my grip."

"He's probably at his own house tonight, pet."

The boys slid in to their chairs, Francis retrieved the wine from the front hall where he had left it by the door.

"What is that?" Arthur asked as Francis joined the three at the table. "Bloody hell, frog, this is..." Francis passed him the bottle then he took the napkin at his place and draped it over his lap.

" _Oui._ "

"How did you...?" Arthur spluttered as he turned the bottle over in his hands. Francis , meanwhile, was relieved Arthur _did_ have an appreciation for such a fine wine.

"Ah, the vineyard mailed it to me with the request to talk about it in an upcoming article."

"Francis, this is... well, congratulations, first of all." he handed the bottle back to Francis to uncork. "But, are you sure you want to waste it on me? It seems much too fine a wine to enjoy on a Friday night in my little kitchen."

"Nonsense, _mon petit ami_ , it was either this or drink it alone." He caught Matthew's eye, who was staring at him with a strange expression on his pudgy face, and winked.

Alfred, unable to sit still and listen to adults talk any longer, suddenly burst, "we have to say grace!" and grabbed his brother's hand and Arthur's who was next to him. Arthur shrugged, smiling, before hesitantly taking Francis' hand, whose other was filled with Matthew's.

"Dear Jesus," Alfred said loudly, little eyes squeezed shut tight, "Thank you for Uncle Art. I miss Uncle Lukas, he can cook better. Thank you for Mr. Francis and that he came and put a band-aid on my owie and got Uncle Art to wake up and he made dinner, which will be better than whatever Uncle Art was making," he took a breath, "thank you for Mattie ("and Kuma!") and Kuma, too. Please make mummy safe and that she will come home soon, amen!"

"Amen!"

Francis uncorked the wine then poured himself and Arthur a glass.

"Cheers, to coming in the nick of time."

"Bloody frog."

They clinked their glasses together.


	5. Chapter 5

**An:** The Nordics are my fav, so, yanno, I can't help myself but have them in this story.  
 **Please see the end of this chapter for an important author note!**

* * *

The boys were in bed and Arthur was relaxing in an armchair, glass of wine in his hand.

"That was bloody delicious," he sighed, lolling his head to the side so he could look at Francis sitting on the sofa nearby. one leg elegantly crossed over the other. Francis raised his glass in thanks, then took a sip. He said nothing, but his eyes were sparkling as he watched Arthur. He felt heat coil in his belly and was unsure if it was the alcohol he had consumed or something else, something caused by Francis himself. He was a terribly pretty man. Long, golden lashes framing blue eyes that seemed to perpetually shine with mischief. His long hair looked so soft, like it wouldn't tangle if you were to comb your fingers through it, instead it would glide between your fingers like reams of silk. He was wearing one of Arthur's shirts, his own in the wash after Alfred got his blood all over it, and it was slightly too small for him. The buttons were straining against his chest swollen with muscle Arthur had no idea he had. It was hard not to stare, the top button loose and inviting his eyes to travel down his body.

Arthur shook his head, clearing the thoughts away. That was not an avenue of thought he needed to take with the last of the wine in his glass and the subject sitting only a few feet away. Clearly, he had had too much to drink.

He let his eyes flutter shut and instead enjoyed the silence. Francis had convinced the boys to go to bed without much fuss and they had long ago fallen silent, finally falling asleep. He felt himself start to drift into a doze.

"Mmm, I need to clean the kitchen," he forced himself to speak, the words coming up from his chest and requiring entirely too much effort. He hadn't felt this tired since, well, since yesterday evening.

"Nonsense, _chérie_ , I will take care of it." He didn't open his eyes, but he heard the shuffle of fabric and the creak of the sofa as Francis got to his feet.

"You made dinner, frog. Just leave it, I can always do it in the morning." He hated the idea of waking to a mess in the kitchen, but he was feeling much too mellow to care about that right now. "Sit back down and enjoy this blissful silence with me."

"I think you have had too much to drink," he did snap his eyes open when he felt the warm breath rolling across his jaw when the words were spoken. Francis was leaning over him, one hand on his hip, the other on the back of the armchair in which Arthur was sitting. He was so close Arthur could have counted his eyelashes. He gripped the wineglass in his hand tighter before bringing it to his lips, it barely fit in the space between them, and he tipped it back, emptying the remaining contents into his mouth. He swallowed and smiled, handing the glass to Francis who arched a brow at him.

"I think you are entirely correct," he said, the alcohol in his system causing him to have an almost unbearable urge to tilt his chin up and steal those smirking, French lips with a kiss. It would have been that easy, he just had to shift his weight and their mouths would have collided together, had Francis not pulled away and wandered towards the kitchen.

Arthur did doze, then, only stirring when there was a clank of dishes knocking together as Francis put the kitchen back into order. It felt like only a minute went by when silence descended on the house once again and then warm hands were tugging at his shoulders.

"Come, Arthur, let's get you to bed," he hummed in agreement and let himself be hauled to his feet and steered towards the stairs. He didn't remember getting into his room, only that he flopped into the comfort of his bed and Francis was over him, unbuttoning his shirt.

"At least buy me dinner first," he chuckled.

"I _did_ make you dinner," Francis drew his eyebrows together and paused to watch Arthur's face before he continued in his task. "What do you wear to bed?" Arthur didn't respond, instead he wiggled deeper into his pillows, Francis' fingers on his abdomen tickling him. He sighed happily as his shirt was tugged free, his blankets soft and cozy on his bare skin. "You are so troublesome," the Frenchman's voice sounded far away, " _bonne nuit_ , Arthur." He heard his bedroom door click shut just before he fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.

Arthur woke the next morning with a splitting headache. He could hear the boys trying to play quietly in their room, which he was thankful for. He took a few minutes to wake up, to convince himself to leave the comfort of his bed, before he finally sat up.

The first thing he noticed, aside from the pain throbbing in his skull, was the fact that he was not wearing a shirt. The second thing he checked was to make sure he still had on pants – he did, the very same from the previous night. He heaved a sigh of relief – disappointment? He couldn't decide. It was too early to have conflicting thoughts, especially without caffeine.

He stretched his aching limbs and padded out of his room, making sure to be quiet so the boys didn't hear him awake just yet, hopefully he could snag a few extra minutes of quiet before they came roaring into the kitchen after him.

Francis was nowhere to be found, but there was a note scrawled in curly handwriting left on the kitchen table:

' _I walked home,_ ma petite ami. _I will come by later today to pick up my car. FB_ '

At least he got home safe, or at the very least didn't drive after their shared bottle of wine.

.

Francis awoke feeling rather pleased with himself.

Despite the mess he walked into when he arrived at Arthur's, the evening itself had gone quite well – at least, he thought it did. He never thought he'd see the day when Arthur was pleasant to him without being coerced – and that was before his second glass of wine!

He was adorable when flushed, his words only barely slurring together, his British accent coming in a lot more thick. He smiled more freely when mellow and Francis had been surprised by how quickly his heart raced away when his face split into an easy grin. He was quite lovely.

On his walk home he realized he could no longer hide from himself – he had developed a bit of a crush on his office-mate. He evoked a passion in him with their arguments which made his day so much more colourful. Their civil conversations during office hours often made Francis think about things and situations he may not have previously considered; he found himself with many more opinions on subjects he never knew he felt so strongly about. Arthur was shaping him into a new and better man. Not to mention how adorable he was when he got angry, the way his green eyes would flash in pure rage, stuttering as he tried to conjure up a sufficient come-back to some witticism Francis had thrown his way. He loved stirring him up, it gave him no greater joy than to see him look so lively.

It had taken every fiber in his being not to kiss him when he had been so close. He almost had, before he realized that, with Arthur, he wanted to woo him the right way, and kissing him while inebriated was not the right direction. Even though he looked as if he wanted it. And again in his bedroom-

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

He decided to have a shower.

.

When Francis finally decided to go back to Arthur's to fetch his car, he was surprised to see a dark, four-door sedan parked in the drive. He sauntered up to the house and was about to knock when the door swung inwards and Lukas greeted him with a cool stare.

"Bonnefoy," he said, stepping aside to let him into the house. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"My car is out front," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder in its direction parked on the side of the road. Lukas only shrugged.

"Uncle Lukas!" a small voice cried from inside the house and Francis was overcome with such a strong feeling of jealousy and rage it nearly knocked the wind out of him. _Uncle Lukas_. He had almost forgotten.

He liked Lukas, he was a good man. They had shared a coffee and discussed writing a handful of times, they were on agreeable terms, despite Francis attempting to woo him and being consistently turned down. He thought Lukas was fascinating, albeit a bit weird at times, and he always had interesting things to say once you got him talking. However, this afternoon, standing in the entryway to Arthur's house with Arthur's nephews calling him by a term of endearment, he desired only to punch him square in the face.

Lukas turned and disappeared into the house and left Francis standing in the doorway. He eventually removed his shoes and followed into the kitchen where he found Alfred and Matthew colouring at the kitchen table.

"Mr. Francis!" Matthew cried happily, waving his marker-covered hands in enthusiasm.

"Uncle Art told us to thank you for dinner last night when you came by," said Alfred, "it was very yummy."

"You were here last night?" Lukas raised an eyebrow, Francis chose to ignore him.

"Is your Uncle Artie not at home?" Both boys shook their head, Matthew quietly informed him that he had gone shopping, Alfred added that he should be coming home soon. Francis could feel Lukas staring at him.

"You just came for your car, right?" Francis was forced to acknowledge Lukas and he felt rather bitter about it.

" _Oui_ ," he strained a smile, "I did, but then I was thinking of hanging around and helping with dinner again."

"Oh, there is no need. I am here."

"So you are, but, perhaps you would like a break? I have heard you've been over almost _every_ night since the boys have come to stay here."

"It's no trouble," Lukas shrugged, "I've quite enjoyed the company."

Just then the front door opened and closed and Arthur's voice trailed into the kitchen, "Lukas, boys? I'm home! Oh, Francis! You're here, too!" Arthur appeared in the kitchen, arms laden with groceries. Both Francis and Lukas reached out to help him, pausing with their hands outstretched to give each other a meaningful look, before both took a bag from Arthur's arms, who didn't seem to notice. "You got home alright last night, then?" he asked Francis.

" _Oui_ , it was a pleasant walk," he could feel Lukas staring at him again, so he offered a shrug and a smirk, "we both drank a little too much wine last night," he said, a little too smugly. Lukas rolled his eyes and nodded, returning his attention to the groceries he was putting away.

"Are you staying for dinner tonight, Lukas?" Arthur asked absently.

"Ah, yes, I was thinking of it," he glanced back at Francis, his normally stoic expression seeming almost confused, eyebrows drawn together, "actually, Arthur, I have to admit, besides helping watch the boys while you run errands, I have an ulterior motive to being here."

"A _ha_!" Francis whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at him. Arthur and Lukas both gave him a funny look, neither having the opportunity to respond before there was a knock at the front door.

"That will be it," Lukas said, trailing out of the kitchen, Arthur following close behind, Francis taking up the rear out of sheer curiosity. Also, he didn't want to leave the two of them _alone_. When he rounded the corner to the entryway, the door was already open revealing two men Francis immediately recognized from the art department at work: the hulking and silent Berwald, and the bouncing, grinning Matthias. "Arthur," Lukas began to explain, "I was thinking Berwald could take a look at your car for you, since you still haven't taken it into a shop."

"Oh, bloody hell, really? That would be brilliant!" Arthur reached a hand forward and warmly took a hold of Berwald's, shaking it.

"Matthias just returned from a business trip and requested to tag along," Arthur shook his hand as well. "Actually," Lukas turned to Francis, his eyebrows drawn again, a perplexed expression on his face, "Francis, have you met Matthias?"

"We have run into each other at work once or twice," he smiled at the artist who grinned happily at him, saluting.

"Ah," Lukas cleared his throat, "in that case, you would be aware that Matthias is my _partner_?" He stressed the last word, eyes boring into Francis' with such intensity he felt his cheeks heat up. Partner? As in... significant other? He dared not ask and did his best to cover up the shock he felt seeping into his eyes and slackened jaw. He shook his head, not trusting his voice to respond.

"Thank you for letting him hang around so much while I was away, Arthur," Matthias said, laughing and scratching the back of his head, "it was nice knowing he wasn't spending too much time alone without me." Arthur, Lukas, and Matthias continued to chat happily before Berwald gruffly reminded them the reason of their visit and they all filed outside in order to stand around Arthur's car.

Francis' head was reeling.

If Lukas had a partner, a _romantic partner_ , and that partner was Matthias from the office... then he wasn't really after Arthur. Unless Arthur was his side-guy – which seemed unlikely. Especially for someone like Arthur, who only ever seemed to play by the rules. Had he misinterpreted all of Lukas' would-be advances towards Arthur?

He was not often the jealous type, and he almost refused to believe he had slipped into such a bad habit. And yet, the evidence was undeniable.

At the very least, Lukas having a partner explained why he had resisted Francis' earlier flirtations. Had he been single he would have easily fallen for his charismatic charms.

Francis did not stay for dinner; instead, he excused himself so he could go home and quietly think. He needed to straighten out his feelings, and likely form some sort of apology for Lukas when he saw him at work on Monday. He also still owed him coffee for looking after the boys that first day. He also needed to consider what he was going to do about this new Arthur situation – would he pursue it further, or leave it be? There were so many good questions that needed answering, and he couldn't do that while in Arthur's house.

.

"Uncle Artie," Mattie asked sleepily as Arthur tucked the blankets around his small form, "I like your new boyfriend." Arthur froze.

"Pardon me?"

"I like your new boyfriend," Matthew repeated through a yawn.

"Pet, what makes you think I have a boyfriend?"

"That's what Mr. Francis called you."

"He... what? When?"

"Last night at dinner, he said ' _ma petite ami_ '!"

"You can speak French? And what does that mean?" He thought it had simply been one of the usual Frenchy nicknames that Francis called everybody.

"He called you his boyfriend," Mattie repeated, starting to sound annoyed that Arthur wasn't grasping the simplicity of his statement.

"Right," he dropped a kiss on Mattie's head and tried not to over-think it. "Never you mind about that, pet, just go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning."

Francis was going to get a piece of his mind.

* * *

 **AN: I am away on holidays! Which is why this chapter is so short. I tried to write more, but I simply ran out of time!**

 **If you follow Dr. O or Paging Doctors, I didn't want to rush their chapters and will be uploading only an author note for the time being.**

 **You can look forward to your regular chapter length and scheduled updates next weekend! June 13!**


	6. Chapter 6

**LIFE AND STYLE**

 **CHAPTER 6**

* * *

Arthur fully intended to give Francis a piece of his mind, he just wasn't sure about _when_. He half expected Francis to turn up one evening during the week, but he never did, much to Arthur's great annoyance. He wasn't sure why he felt so disappointed or why his gut twisted into an angry knot when Matthew innocently inquired where his 'boyfriend' was. He tried to dodge the question, then lay in bed unable to sleep, wondering to himself why he didn't simply deny it to his nephew. "Francis is not my boyfriend," he'd whisper aloud to himself. See? It wasn't so hard. He just couldn't do it to the young, wide-eyed face of his youngest nephew.

Lukas also did not come around as often now that Matthias was home, but he did occasionally telephone in order to check up on how Arthur was handling the boys.

He hardly knew how to answer. He constantly felt like he was drowning, and his sister was not being much help. All of her e-mails in response to asking when she was coming home were only answered with a brief, "not yet," or he was simply met with silence. He was getting increasingly frustrated, more and more suspicions that she wasn't coming back at all. Her sons asked about her every evening at the dinner table, Alfred almost always insisting they clasp hands and pray before their meals, ending each prayer with the wish that his mother would come home soon. It broke Arthur's heart when they asked him when she would return and he had no answer for them.

His car had been blessedly repaired by Matthias and the silent Berwald – free of charge, which was a cost that Arthur very much appreciated. This meant that Arthur really had no excuse not to go visit Francis at work. If Francis wasn't going to show up, then he was going to have to go to him. He waited an entire week before he stormed the office in order to have words with Francis. ' _Mon petite ami_ ', indeed.

It was strange being back in the office even after only a couple weeks away. Even though everything was exactly as it was when he left, it felt so different. He had spent so many years stomping down the hall to his office, arms laden with research material, eager to sit at his computer and _write_. He recalled how, just before he took time off, his gut would twist in to a knot as he got closer to the open door, knowing his office mate would be there. Kiku had been a fantastic person to share an office with, and he never felt uneasy when they worked together. Francis, however, had an uncanny ability to make him feel immediately on edge by doing even nothing. Arthur was loathe to admit that it was Francis who made working at Edelstein Publishing so _entertaining_.

When he rounded the corner to his old office and poked his head in to the gloom, he had to grip the door frame to steady himself.

There never was a powerful moment in Arthur's life when he knew for sure that he was gay.

He was always able to appreciate a good looking woman when he saw one, the same for men. He never gave much thought about what had made him wake in the middle of the night, skin damp with a lust-filled sweat. He'd sooner forget having woken in such a state at all than dwell on the heated images in his foggy mind.

He had never met a woman he liked enough to pursue an intimate relationship with, but this he felt was normal. His work was his love life. For as long as Arthur could remember, he used every ounce of thought, action, and quiet moments to perfect his craft: writing. He toiled at it. Writing was how he expressed his emotions. He would turn to his pen and notepad when anything happened to him, good, bad, or ugly. The sound of a pen scratching words to paper was always his companion. His written words could not abandon him, say mean things, or break his heart. They could comfort him when he was sad or lonely, and make him laugh when he was happy.

Words on pages had always been enough…

The large window at the far end of the room had the blinds drawn shut, casting the small office in to near total darkness. The only light came from two small spotlight lamps on each of the desks facing each other and the two computer screens that sat back to back.

Ludwig sat with his back to the door, at Arthur's old desk, hunched over and writing furiously in a small black notebook. From the door Arthur could see Francis, elbow on his desk and chin in the palm of his hand. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, deep in concentration. His hair was loose, mussed from when he must have combed his fingers through it in frustration. He always combed his fingers through his long, perfect hair when agitated. He was wearing glasses. The frames had slid down his nose and Francis bumped them back in to place with his free hand before it returned to his computer mouse. The computer screen was reflected in the lenses and Arthur could only just make out his blue eyes skimming over whatever he was reading.

Looking so studious, Arthur could not help but feel an incredible sense of intense arousal.

' _Oh shit_ ,' he thought, mouth hanging open, ' _I'm so gay_.'

Right after his brain processed the thought he just had, he was immediately annoyed. Of all the bloody morons in the world it had to be _Francis_ that spurred on such a train of thought.

' _It's the glasses_ ,' he told himself firmly. He had a thing for Frenchmen in glasses. No. He had a thing for Frenchmen. _Glasses_. He meant glasses.

He was about to duck away and make a hasty retreat when Francis happened to look up.

"Arthur," he called, sitting straighter and quickly batting the glasses from his face, they clattered to the desk, the noise almost startling in the silent office. Ludwig stiffened and turned to look at him as well. "What are you doing here?"

What was he doing here? His mouth had gone dry and his reasoning had long left his brain, flushing right out of his reddening ears.

"I-I-" He couldn't believe he was stuttering. He, Arthur Kirkland, stuttering like a preteen trying to talk to his crush. He decided to ignore the fact that the situations were not that dissimilar.

Ludwig suddenly cleared his throat and rose to his feet, towering over Arthur and seeming to fill the tiny office. He gathering his notebook and quietly excused himself, muttering something about how he would give them space to talk. Arthur wanted to reach out and grab him by the sleeve of his shirt, to stop him from abandoning him with Francis and his _feelings_. He would have voiced it if he could, but his plea was stuck in his dry throat; he stared like a deer caught in the headlights at Ludwig's retreating back and the subsequent shutting of the door behind him.

He was alone with Francis.

"Arthur, is everything all right?" Goddamn him and his ability to sound so calm and collected at a time like this, while Arthur was having a mental crisis. It hardly seemed fair. He looked to the ceiling and desperately searched for answers up there, for help in the situation he had gotten himself into. Please, ceiling, dear God, please remind him of why he was there. Francis was rising to his feet, Arthur dared not look when he heard the shuffle of fabric as he moved closer to him, his hands warm and gentle on Arthur's shoulders. "Do you need to sit down, _cher_? You do not look so well." The concern in his tone was endearing and it made Arthur mad. He felt the pressure as Francis tried to push him towards Ludwig's – _his_ – emptied office chair. He allowed himself to be pushed until he was almost sitting, then forced against Francis and stood again.

"Did you call me your _boyfriend_?" His voice returned to him in full force. Francis visibly paled, his hands jerking away from Arthur and he took a step back.

" _P-Pardon_?" Arthur sneered at Francis' own stammering. Revenge!

"Matthew speaks French," he crossed his arms across his chest and put on his best angry face. It was hard to feel so angry when he was taking such great pleasure in the uncomfortable expressions passing over the Frenchman's face; he looked quite frightened. "He made a comment about you being my boyfriend," he continued, almost unable to keep the cruel glee from his tone, "he said ' _mon petite ami_ ' means _boyfriend._ "

"D-did I say that?" he laughed nervously, "perhaps just a slip of the tongue, _oui_?"

"That's a very odd slip of the tongue, wouldn't you agree?" He took a step towards Francis, smirking darkly.

"I may have meant to say ' _mon petite lapin',_ " he took a step back towards the wall and Arthur happily followed him, "or maybe ' _mon petit... rosbif_ '? Or..." He took another step back, bumping into a cluttered bookshelf. Arthur continued to advance on him. He wasn't quite sure why he did so, he didn't know what he hoped to gain. He was simply enjoying having the upper hand with the suave Frenchman. Francis gave him an inch of discomfort and weakness and Arthur fully intended to snatch up a mile. For once, he was causing the blush to rise in his opponent's cheeks and not the other way around.

"My little roast beef? Really?" He was so close to Francis he could hear his quickened breaths. He uncrossed his arms and placed on hand on the shelf above his head, leaning in to fleer at him. Francis was a few inches taller, he hated to admit, but with him shrinking against the shelf Arthur felt quite like he was several feet taller. He enjoyed the sensation of towering over him. He quirked a brow, waiting for an answer.

"I might have meant to say something else entirely," he squeaked, blinking dazedly up at Arthur, the blood having rushed back into his cheeks in full force. He kept chewing on his bottom lip and Arthur hated the fact that he noticed. "Or..." Arthur leaned in a bit further, pressing for him to continue, daring him to say what was on his mind. "Or I might have meant it." Arthur reeled away.

That was not the response he had been expected.

"W-what?" Francis looked startled for only a split second before he latched on to Arthur's moment of confusion. He reached out, grabbed Arthur by the elbows and spun them around so their roles were reverse, figuratively and physically.

"I may have meant it, or at the very least, desired to mean it."

"Don't be preposterous, frog." The blush in Francis' cheeks had not subsided, but his eyes glinted with new-found courage and he straightened to his full height, no longer cowering at Arthur's smirks and advances.

If Francis was telling the truth... Arthur wasn't sure exactly that would mean. He needed to gain the higher ground again, he couldn't be this close to him without being the one in control. Not when he looked so deliciously devious leaning over him, still chewing on that bottom lip, but eyes flashing with a bold, predatory emotion. Arthur swallowed thickly. Francis kept advancing, smiling in a way that was causing his heart to hammer in his throat and his knees to feel quite like jello; he was thankful he was backed up against the bookshelf, not certain he'd be able to stand with Francis' warm breath rolling across his jaw the way it was. Was Francis going to kiss him?

 _Was Francis about to kiss him?!_

"I didn't know you wore glasses!" he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut, chickening out in a panic.

The warmth radiating from Francis suddenly disappeared and the room was filled with his melodic laughter. Arthur waited a moment before opening his eyes again, watching as the Frenchman retreated back to his desk, elegantly dropping into his chair and leaning back in a comfortable recline.

"Oh, _sourcils_ , do not play with fire if you cannot stand the heat," Francis chuckled.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, you wanker?" Arthur freely allowed the anger to bubble up in his gut, overtaking the desire that had started to bloom and drowning it out. Francis laughed again.

"You started it," he turned his chair to face Arthur, one arm dangling off the side, the other resting on the armrest, hand twirling some of his hair in his fingers. "You were suddenly so _dominant_. Now you are back to a frightened little _lapin_." If there was one thing Arthur hated more than anything, it was being teased, specifically by Francis, especially when it was in such a way that seemed to suggest that Arthur could not regain the upper-hand.

He refused to lose.

He marched up to Francis, who had the decency to look startled, grabbed a handful his bloody, perfect hair and wrenched his head back. Arthur leaned down and smashed their lips together with such sudden force the chair in which Francis was sitting teetered dangerously and he made a noise of surprise into Arthur's mouth, hands instinctively grabbing onto his forearms for support.

Arthur kissed Francis fiercely until his mind caught up with his body and he jumped away, hand at his mouth and eyes wide in panic. Francis looked just as taken-aback, staring at him in wide confusion and shock. _What on earth had he just done_?

Francis looked as if he was about to say something when there was a knock at the door and it sprung open, Feliciano twirling in.

"Luddy, Francis – oh! Arthur!" He bounced on the balls of his feel, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness he had just walked into. "I did not know you were back! Where is Ludwig, though? Or are you just visiting?" There was an endless stream of questions and Arthur cleared his throat, waiting for an appropriate moment to interject.

"No, Feli, I'm just visiting," he manged to get in.

"Oh! I see!"

"I just needed to, ah, speak with Francis about something..."

"Oh that's a relief! I would have missed seeing Luddy every day – ah! Not that I like him better than you!" His smile fell for the briefest of moments before he recovered, "do you want your mail or should I just... I'll just leave it here on the desk. Here's yours, Francis," he passed a small bundle of envelopes over to Francis, who wordlessly accepted them, his eyes still not leaving Arthur's face. "Do you... do you know when you'll be coming back to work?" Feli asked, almost like he was scared to do so. Arthur offered him an encouraging smile, thankful for the distraction from only moments earlier. He did not have any desire to be left alone with the consequences of his actions.

"Not yet, I'm afraid, but I'll be sure to let you know as soon as I do." Feliciano brightened at this.

"I hope you come back soon, but I also hope that you are enjoying your time away. Or... when you are away...? I'm sorry, was I interrupting something a moment ago?"

"No," Arthur heard himself say over Francis' "yes," he glanced back at the Frenchman with wide eyes and they stared at each other for a moment before Feli cleared his throat, forcing the attention in the room back to him.

"I better go, then, so I'll see you tomorrow, Francis!"

"Wait, Feli!" Arthur reached and grabbed onto his sleeve, something he should have done to Ludwig before he had escaped. He wasn't going to let history repeat itself, not if he could help it. Feli turned to him, eyes wide and curious, waiting for Arthur's reasoning.

" _S_ _ì_?"

"Ahm," he grasped at straws, "if you wait a few minutes, I'm sure Ludwig will come back!" Feliciano's face reddened quite severely at the suggestion and he froze, almost frightened.

" _Oh_ ," was all he breathed out.

This was not turning out to be a very comfortable afternoon and Arthur suddenly felt quite guilty for dragging poor, innocent Feliciano into his mess.

"I-if you want to, that is," he released his shirt, not daring to look back at Francis; he could feel his eyes drilling holes into the back of his head. Feli seemed physically torn as to how to respond to the situation he now found himself in, and Arthur did his best to look apologetic, he really did, but he was thankful that he was stalling the inevitable conversation to follow as soon as the Italian left. He wanted to mouth, 'don't leave me', but was sure that the words would have gone right over Feli's head.

Awkward silence descended. Feliciano was red in the face and twitching, Arthur was guilt-ridden and nervous, and Francis, well, Arthur did not dare look behind him to see what Francis was doing. He assumed he looked mildly flabbergasted and gorgeous. Or, maybe he was angry... Arthur almost chanced a glance back before catching himself. One thing was for certain, whatever his expression, his lips were undoubtedly swollen from Arthur's fierce kiss.

Heh.

Feliciano cracked under the pressure of the silence first, "Can... can I leave? I really do want to see Ludwig, but I also have to finish delivering the mail before lunch, so..."

"Go, Feli, don't mind Arthur. He's in a strange mood this morning," Francis' voice was smooth and confident. Arthur flinched and ducked his head as Feli dashed from the room, calling a friendly goodbye as he went. "Arthur." Now he sounded firm and commanding.

"Yes, Francis?"

"Look at me."

"No, I really would rather not." He cleared his throat and busied himself with straightening his shirt. What time was it? He should probably relieve Lukas in the Art Department of his hyperactive nephews and take them home.

Francis' hands were suddenly on his shoulders and spinning him around. He stumbled, the hands stayed him before he toppled over. One of them reached for his chin and tilted his head up to look Francis in the eye.

"Why did you kiss me just now?" Goodness he was blunt. And dear God he wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to reach up and tangle his hands in that golden hair and snog Francis breathless, pushing him into the desk behind him and ravage his flesh until he was begging for mercy. He wanted to tear the clothes off his goddamned perfect body and- he stopped his train of thought.

"Because you backed me into a corner and challenged me, _frog_ ," he spat instead. "I wasn't about to let you _win_ so easily." Francis blinked several times before releasing him and backing away. He nodded once, twice, then cleared his throat.

"Well, then, you win, Arthur." He turned to back to his desk, collapsed into his chair, and pulled himself back up to his computer. "I apologize for mistakenly calling you ' _mon petite ami_ ', I will make sure it doesn't slip out again." Arthur wondered if he should feel victorious, but his heart seemed to slide down into his shoes instead. That was not the happy feeling he would have normally experienced...

"Right, well," he straightened his shirt again, "glad that's sorted."

"Was there something else that you needed, Arthur?" Arthur frowned. Francis never called him by his first name so often, not unless he absolutely had to.

"No, that... that was everything." He furrowed his brow, peering at the Frenchman.

"Alright, have a good afternoon."

Arthur waited a moment to see if Francis would look up or say anything else. He stayed silent, the click of his mouse and periodic _tap-taping_ of his long fingers on the keyboard filling the silence. Arthur sighed heavily, ran a hand through his hair, before withdrawing from the office, leaving the door open behind him as he left.

He hadn't really thought out how he had envisioned the confrontation to go; however, what had just happened was definitely not it.

* * *

 **AN:** FINALLY! Thank you all for your continued patience. I had fun writing this chapter - I hope you enjoyed reading it!

Feel free to drop a review! :) I'll love you forever if you do!


	7. Chapter 7

**LIFE AND STYLE**

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

Francis did not often find himself floundering for a way to respond. He was capable in situations involving romance – that was his specialty, after all. The fact that he was shocked into a confused silence left a sour taste in his mouth. Arthur had, somehow, gained the upper-hand; he'd grabbed Francis by the proverbial horns and flipped him onto his back and left him in the dust. The art of flirting and, regrettably in hindsight, leading others on for his own gains was his mastered craft. Arthur was supposed to be fun and easy prey. He was supposed to be an innocent flirt to pass the time. Francis enjoyed watching the blush bloom in his cheeks and his eyes flash with a plethora of emotions. Pushing his buttons was the most fun he'd had since, well, he couldn't remember how long it had been since he had _fun_ pursuing somebody, with or without the intent of it going anywhere.

If Francis was being brutally honest with himself, which was something he tried to avoid, he had to admit he had developed some asinine attraction to the prickly Brit; which melted into a cruel crush, and now, it had manifested into a whole different sort of monster. He was dealing with something so much bigger than a mere crush... he dared not to think what the feeling twisting in his chest was.

And then Arthur had gone and kissed him – right after Francis had planned on doing the same thing – throwing him off his axis. He did not get kissed. He initiated kisses. He was the one that kissed a startled pair of lips and left chuckling over his shoulder, the other blushing and confused and no longer able to get him from their minds. It was usually in his ploy to lure someone into his romantic traps... so what was Arthur doing? He didn't seem the sort to be playing any kind of game.

'I couldn't let you have the upper-hand' he had said. The longer he turned these words over in his head, the icier the blood in his veins ran. Was Arthur aware of Francis' habits? The thought frightened him and this was an emotion he was not used to experiencing. He was never ashamed of his actions; he was usually proud of his abilities to woo anyone he set his sights on, another notch in the bed post, so to speak. Not that sex was what motivated him – far from it. He reveled in the sensation of falling in love. He drank it in and lived off of it. Those fleeting moments of the thrill before the passion, the blood pumping hot through your entire body, the anticipation of just one more kiss. To him, this was love.

That was not what he felt with Arthur. Something was very different about this situation, something very wrong. It was making Francis question his definition of love, and that frightened him more than anything else.

When had things changed? He wondered if it was when Arthur had become a sort of second-hand parent, or had things changed before then? Or, perhaps, it was more recent than all that – perhaps it had happened when they had shared dinner and wine at Arthur's house? No, it had to have happened before that. Francis did not go over to the homes of his targets with the intent, the desire, to be domestic without anything in return.

But oh, how he longed for domestic normalcy with Arthur. His dreams had changed from erotic to simple. He often caught himself daydreaming about waking up late on a lazy weekend arms wrapped around his love, simply content to be tangled up in each other, giving each other slow kisses as they woke. Then making breakfast, still in pajamas, and shared light touches in passing. Breakfast in bed, tickle fights rolling into stolen kisses that last longer and longer until the love is too much to hold in, and there's only one way to show and release it.

He clutched at his head. His thoughts were taking a very dangerous turn. Love was not a word he shied away from, but his interpretation had nothing to do with his most recent daydreams.

He needed to refocus.

No, scratch that, he needed to see Arthur again and see if he could figure out his angle. He needed to soothe his storm of thoughts and calm his frazzled mind. Also, he was curious if he could flip this, turn it back around and regain his safe position as the leader of this dance. He would likely have to kiss Arthur first.

He could handle that. He wouldn't mind feeling those coquettish lips against his own again. Perhaps he would pick an argument with him then silence him with his mouth – that always gave way to the passion he craved to course through him, his definition of love.

Then there was the whole 'boyfriend' debacle. Had he really called Arthur his boyfriend? He hadn't actually noticed. It was an old slip of the tongue, Francis didn't _do_ relationships in the traditional sense of the word. The only explanation he could come up with was the domestic feeling of the whole prior evening... he was making dinner, calling the kids to come eat, pouring the wine... Looking across the table, eyes connecting, a small smile and an entire conversation in a silent, split second. One that spoke of thanks, contentment, appreciation, affection... love?

Oh dear Lord, Francis needed an entire bottle of wine just to himself. This was clearly not going to go away any time soon. Perhaps he should set his sights on someone else for the time being – a distraction of sorts. That might help nudge his world back onto its proper axis.

.

Francis tried going to his favourite bar. He'd always had luck finding love in here in the past, and there were several delectable options prowling the dance floor. He leaned his back against the bar and sipped his vodka and soda, scoping out the activity going throughout the room.

"Francis, _mi amigo_ , I am telling you, you had a home run with the lovely brunette you were flirting with earlier. She was damn fine."

" _Non_ ," Francis turned to smile at his friend, Antonio, "she didn't want-"

"Friend," Antonio cut him off and placed a hand gently on his elbow, "she literally asked you to go home with her."

"Nonsense, she's drunk. You know I don't operate like that." Francis scoffed, waving his hand in the air in dismissal.

"She had just arrived. Francis, does this have something to do with Arthur?"

"What on earth gave you that idea?" Francis slammed the remainder of his drink back and wheeled around to face his friend.

"You would have been in the pants of half this club normally, and you would have gone home with that brunette. She has your flavour of love written all over her face." Francis screwed up his face, he couldn't decide if it was because of anger, disgust, or the alcohol. He slid onto the stool beside Antonio. "Besides," he continued, "we have not been drinking together in ages, and any time we do hang out you speak of nothing else, man."

"Oh, that cannot be true." Antonio shrugged and smiled at him. His smile was less happy and more made of sad sympathy, which made Francis angry. He stared into the bottom of his empty glass and felt an odd question build up, whetting his lips with a bitter taste.

"What is love to you, Antonio?" is friend looked shocked for the briefest of moments before he relaxed his face back into his sympathetic smile.

"Is this really the place you are wanting to discuss matters of the heart, friend? Come." He pulled the empty glass from Francis' grip and fished cash out of his pocket. He paid for both of their drinks before grabbing Francis by the hand and hauling him to his feet, leading him from the bar. Francis weakly tried to object, to which his response was a firm, "a _migo_ , even I know you are not going home with a stranger tonight."

Antonio continued to hold Francis by the hand as he led him down the street before stopping at a bus bench. He sat Francis down and plopped next to him. They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the traffic go by on the street in front of them. Francis tried to decide if he really wanted to have a serious conversation with his cheery Antonio. They had been, he would say, good friends for several years, having met in their freshman years at the same university. However, their relationship did not often go deeper than surface fun, not unless copious amounts of alcohol had been consumed. That's how Antonio had come out to him and revealed his undying devotion for his childhood friend, some Italian boy, that he believed was to be forever unrequited.

"I don't know if I'm drunk enough for this," Francis said at last, glancing sideways through his hair. Antonio laughed and patted his knee.

"Nonsense. You do not need liquid courage to talk to me. Besides, you've already asked your question, it's me that has to do the talking now. I just need a minute to find the right words."

Francis sighed and they fell into silence once more.

What would Antonio have to say about it? For as long as Francis had known him, he had never been romantically involved with anyone, he was abnormally chaste. He always seemed to live vicariously through Francis and his antics. Even knowing all of this, he could not help but feel he was the best person to ask.

"Love," Antonio suddenly cut through the silence, his voice quiet, almost shy, "as they say, love is wanting to do everything and anything for a person and expecting nothing in return. To me, love is realizing that throughout your whole life you were walking around as only half a person. Even though you felt whole, you didn't understand how broken apart you were until you met your other half, the one that completes you. Love is feeling that brokenness after you've met your missing pieces, but you cannot be together. Love is knowing everything there is to know about a person and craving to know more. Love is seeing someone at their absolute worst, at their lowest, and still your heart will beat only for them. Love is the willingness to endure the worst pain for your other half without a word of complaint, because for them, you would give anything, even your life, for they are your whole world." Antonio laughed, his eyes shining and he paused to wipe their corners, brushing away the beginnings of a more serious emotion. "Love is having your whole world flipped upside down. At first it's scary and confusing, then you stat to realize that it's the only thing that makes sense."

Francis heaved a great sigh and slouched back into the bench, running a hand through his hair.

"I have always defined love as that rush you get in your veins, shaking hands, a cool sweat on your palms. I thought love was a quickened heartbeat and the desire to be with someone in the flesh and have nothing else matter until that thirst is quenched – and may it never be satisfied for as long as you love someone."

"Well," Antonio chuckled, "there's that too. But, _amigo_ , I'd call that lust." Francis smiled weakly. "Come," Antonio stood and offered his hand, "the bus is coming, let's keep walking." Francis let himself be once again hauled to his feet and looped his arm through Antonio's while they started down the sidewalk.

"Francis, I think you are falling in love with Arthur." Francis froze, his arm slid away from Antonio's as his friend continued walking a few more steps before turning around. The blood was rushing so loud in his ears that he hardly heard his own voice over the roar.

"I think you are probably right, _mon ami_ , but I have not come to accept that reality just yet."

"So long as you're thinking about it." Antonio reached to loop their arms together again and tugged him along. He would have to speak to Arthur at some point soon...

They walked in comfortable silence.

.

"Uncle Art, when are we going to go to church again?" The small, innocent question caused Arthur's blood to run cold.

"I beg your pardon?" Maybe he had misheard Alfred. He looked down and Alfred was staring up at him with those big blue eyes, one hand tugging at Arthur's pants, the other balled in to a little fist against his chest.

"Mommy always made us go to Sunday School. At first, I liked not having to go, but now I miss it. Don't you go to church?" Arthur blinked. Church? He vaguely recalled going to church on holidays with his sister and mother, but as he got older, even that tradition fell by the wayside.

"I..." how does he answer? His little nephew was looking up at him with such concern in his eyes, and Matthew stopped colouring at the kitchen table in order to listen in to the conversation. He tried again, "I wasn't sure what kind of church you wanted to go to." That was a good excuse not to go, right? What sort of church did his nephews even attend? Catholic? Protestant? Did they even know the difference?

"Can we go on Sunday?" Matthew piped up, sliding from his chair and skipping over to stand next to his brother, his white teddy bear clasped tight in one of his hands. "I miss it, too."

"I'll think about it." Arthur was not sure how to respond. He did not have a desire to attend any kind of church service. He was pretty confident no amount of preaching could help him now – not with the dreams he kept having of a certain Frenchman. Would he have to confess that? Did the kind of church his nephews wanted to attend even practice confession? Alfred was scowling up at him and Matthew looked upset.

"Uncle Art, you only ever say that when you mean _no_." Alfred stomped one of his feet, "and that's telling a lie, and lying is bad, and I'm not sure Jesus would like that." Arthur blinked. He was getting scolded by a five year old.

Thankfully, Arthur was rescued by a soft knock at the door and Arthur excused himself from the shame-filled looks his nephews were giving him in order to answer it.

"Francis, thank God, you have to help me," he didn't even give a second thought as to why the Frenchman was standing on his stoop on a Saturday afternoon; he grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him inside. "They want to go to church."

" _Pardon_?" Francis allowed himself to be pulled in, stumbling at the sheer force of Arthur's yank. He recovered gracefully, adjusting his collar as he turned to raise an eyebrow at Arthur.

"Church," Arthur hissed again, clutching at Francis' arm. He dared not return to the kitchen where his nephews were waiting for him without a plan. Would he take them to church? He really felt like he wasn't the right person, but then he'd have to face their disappointed faces. He could hear it now, 'don't you care about your eternal soul, uncle?' (because these were things three and five year old's often suggested to their uncles). "They are asking me to take them on Sunday and I haven't the foggiest idea on how to deal with it."

"I could take them," Francis suggested and Arthur wheeled on him, clutching his shoulders, his eyes wide in a frenzied panic.

"You'd do that?" Francis looked mildly frighted, his mouth dropping open. Arthur had the sudden desire to take his face and kiss him fiercely, to shove him into the wall and – perhaps he should attend some sort of religious service with his nephews.

"I-I mean, I suppose... _cher_ , are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, quite alright." He kept clutching Francis and warily eyed the doorway to the kitchen across his house; he chewed on his bottom lip.

It wasn't until they crept from the entryway, back into the kitchen, and Francis was settled at the table colouring with his nephews that Arthur began to wonder what Francis was doing there. He felt a wave of comfort with Francis there, which unsettled him. He had tried not to think of their last meeting, but he had been unable to shake the Frenchman from his thoughts since their _kiss_. He was dreaming of him more frequently. Francis looked up from his colouring and their eyes met, Arthur's heart drummed up into his throat. He suddenly felt quite dizzy. He scowled at Francis and spun on his heel, retreating from the kitchen and busying himself with a book in his sitting room.

Francis did not stay long, he excused himself with the explanation that he had forgotten his original intent on visiting in the first place and the promise to pick them all up for church the next morning. Arthur nodded and tried to calm the butterflies warring in his gut.

Both boys jumped on Arthur to wake him from his fitful sleep the next morning, excited to put on the suits buried in the bottom of their little suitcases and for Arthur to " _get up already!"_ He dragged himself from one morning task to the next, moving slow and wishing he were still in bed and sleeping.

The church was pleasant enough, Francis was a little too excited to share in the experience with Arthur's nephews. He was, surprisingly, well known among the other attendees as they filed in through the double doors and found seats within the sanctuary. Arthur only felt the desire to explain to a handful of strangers, "these are my nephews. I'm not their father," and, "we aren't a couple. He's a... coworker." He felt mildly uncomfortable during worship, shocked that Francis seemed to know all the words, and entertained watching his nephews dance in their seats and sing along loudly to the songs they knew. The sermon itself only made him feel uncomfortably convicted a handful of times, the rest of the time he tried to look like he belonged in the pew, sitting next to Francis who was giving the pastor his undivided attention; Matthew and Alfred had been ushered to Sunday School elsewhere in the building.

Afterwards, Alfred and Matthew found Francis and Arthur in the surge of people milling about in the foyer, chatting. They showed Arthur stickers they received for reciting verses and colouring pages they filled in of animals filing two-by-two into a large boat. They told Arthur and Francis all about what they learned that morning, eyes bright and shining.

"Francis," he flinched and jerked his attention to a young woman approaching their small group, "you never told me you had such a beautiful family!" Francis laughed easily and reached for the woman, kissing her on both of her cheeks. Arthur did not catch her name, the blood ringing in his ears too loudly for him to focus.

"This is Arthur and his nephews, _Matthieu_ and Alfred!"

"We aren't a couple!" Arthur heard himself blurt out, the woman and Francis turning to face him. Francis looked annoyingly pleased and the woman looked shocked, then guilty.

"Oh, I apologize! You make such a lovely couple."

"Don't we, though?" Francis mused, rubbing his chin in mock-consideration, ignoring Arthur's embarrassed spluttering. "I've tried winning him over with my cooking, but he continues to evade my charms!" The woman chuckled at that, turning her attention back to Francis.

"Have you tried flowers?" she asked, and Francis gasped, holding a hand dramatically to his chest.

" _Non_ ," he cried, "I had forgotten about flowers! Arthur!" he turned back to the Brit who had broken out in a nervous sweat; Matthew was paying far too much attention to this exchange. "Tell me, _mon petit rosbif_ , what is your favourite flower?"

"I-I don't-"

"I like lilies!" Matthew supplied helpfully, "the smelly ones!"

"Roses!" chimed in Alfred.

Everyone turned to look at Arthur expectantly, who could think of nothing, too shocked by the direction of the conversation, and in a _church_ of all places. He decided to say the first thing that popped into his head:

"Cactus."

* * *

 **AN:** Whoops this chapter is super late! Gah! Sorry!

I have a headcanon that Francis is quite religious. I read something similar in another fanfiction once, and it stuck with me!

Thank you to the reviewer who corrected my French in my previous chapter! (I'll be changing it on my next edit!)


	8. Chapter 8

**LIFE AND STYLE**

 **CHAPTER 8**

* * *

"Routine" and "tradition" were two of Arthur's favourite words. These words meant stability, comfort, and promised that things were expected and normal. Arthur thrived off of routine and tradition and he struggled to cope when things were anything but this way. His comfortable life had been been tilted when Francis Bonnefoy first walked into their shared office, hand extended in a friendly expression of greeting; when he entered the office and made himself comfortable, "unexpected" and "new" marched through the door right behind him. Of course, Arthur had discovered ways to handle these, he came to expect how his day would play out and wrote into his mental schedule that he was likely to have an explosive argument at some point during the day. He made a mental note to anticipate something happening that he hadn't planned on, that something strange would come out of Francis' mouth that would otherwise make him uncomfortable. He grew to expect the unexpected with Francis.

Two nephews being tossed into his life threw his world off its axis. There was no way he could plan for the unexpected, no matter how hard he tried. Every day was wildly different. He could tell himself he was going to have a good day, and everything you could possibly imagine would go wrong. He could brace himself to have a bad day, and everything went smoothly. He told himself that either of these outcomes could be a possibility and he would be one edge, waiting to see what was going to happen in the next hour, minute, second; he couldn't handle not knowing. How was he supposed to plan for Alfred to fall out of the tree in the backyard while chasing a neighbourhood cat and breaking his arm? How was he to anticipate sitting in a hospital emergency room for several hours with two screaming boys, one out of pain and the other out of sympathy? He could not even fathom being woken up every hour in the middle of the night, one boy wanting a glass of water, the other having had a nightmare, ' _my arm hurts, uncle Artie_ ,' ' _but I'm hungry_ now _,_ ' ' _I can't sleep_ ,' ' _when can I get up and play_?' There was no way he could have guessed the next day the boys would quietly play with each other, no arguments, and Arthur would fall asleep on the couch while some animated movie quietly played in the background. There was no way for him to pencil in his mental day planner that Matthew would come down with a fever a the next night and he would have no idea what to do for it.

"How high is his temperature?" Lukas had come over at Arthur's insistence later in the afternoon. Alfred had knocked on his bedroom door early in the morning, his little face twisted in concern for his brother, "Uncle Artie," he had whispered, "something's wrong with Mattie!" And so there was. His chubby cheeks were darkened with an unhealthy flush, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead, and he was lethargic and uninterested in playing any of the games Alfred suggested in order to cheer him up. He refused to eat breakfast and drifted in and out of sleep throughout the morning. Lukas had arrived with his brother-in-law, the cheery Tino from the Art Department at work, who was carrying a medical kit and wearing an encouraging smile.

"I'm not sure, I don't have a thermometer," Arthur admitted, worrying the hem of his shirt as Tino knelt next to Matthew resting on the couch. He placed the back of his hand on Matthew's forehead, his own brow creasing in thought.

"How long has he been like this?" Tino asked, reaching into his kit and producing a small thermometer and gently placing it in Matthew's ear; he held it there for a moment until it beeped and he frowned at the numbers flashing on the small, digital screen. "He has a fever of over 40 degrees! Have you given him anything?"

"I'm not sure, Alfred came to me this morning at around seven, and no, I wasn't sure what to give him." It had been so long since Arthur himself had been sick, he wasn't even sure any of the medications in his cabinet were still good. Lukas passed Tino a teaspoon and Tino shook a small bottle of purple-looking liquid; Matthew opened his mouth when instructed and swallowed everything Tino gave him without more complaint than a grimace on his face.

"That'll help keep his fever down," Tino said passing the bottle to Arthur, "give it to him every four hours. If he's still not better in the next day or two or gets worse, I'd take him to see a doctor." Arthur thanked him and Tino said he was more than happy to help, he remembered the first night his son had been ill. "The first times are always the worst," he said shaking Arthur's hand at the door, "call me if you need anything else!" And just like that, Arthur was left alone again with his nephews.

All went fairly well, Matthew started to play with Alfred in the living room by the late afternoon and Arthur thought he was home-free. He still had to give poor Matthew medicine to keep his fever down throughout the next day, but he had started to eat small portions of food again. ' _That wasn't so bad_ ,' he told himself as he slid into bed, ' _I've got this. Kids are no problem_.' He felt quite proud of himself as he drifted into a comfortable sleep. Alfred and Matthew had both gone to bed without a fuss and they were asleep before Arthur had finished brushing his own teeth for the night. Aside from the concern of illness, both boys were unusually well behaved while one of them was sick. Alfred hardly complained about his broken arm being itchy, focusing all his attention on lifting his brother's spirits. It was almost like a break in the constant madness two healthy boys brought to his day-to-day.

He should have known it was all too easy when he was awakened first by the loud coughing from the room next to his, then small hands holding his arm and shaking him to complete wakefulness.

"Uncle Artie!" Alfred cried, "Mattie is really sick again!" Arthur groaned and allowed his small nephew pull him towards the guest room - _their_ room - where the small bedside lamp was lit and Matthew was doubled over wheezing and coughing. His small shoulders were shaking and his skin was ashen, aside from bright red in his cheeks from coughing. "He says it hurts to breath, Uncle Artie," Alfred explained jumping up onto the bed and hugging his younger brother.

And to the emergency department they went again for the second time that week.

He wasn't sure why he thought to text Francis. It would have made more sense to text Lukas or even Tino - not that he needed to text anyone. He was in the right place, surrounded by medical professionals that could help him if anything worse happened to his small nephew curled up in his lap and trying to sleep; Alfred was talking to an elderly couple sitting a few chairs away.

 _'In the ER. Matthew is sick._ '

He didn't expect a reply, especially not at 2 am. But sure enough, his phone buzzed in his pocket on a few minutes later, ' _What hospital? What do you need_?' it read and Arthur blinked. He texted back where he was and that he was fine, just needed to complain. He did not expect, half an hour later, for Francis to burst through the doors, hair pulled into a messy ponytail at the back of his head, wrapped in an over-sized grey cardigan and blue plaid pajama bottoms. His eyes fell to Arthur and he strode purposefully towards them. As soon as he was close, little Matthew's eyes fluttered open and he reached his small, chubby hands for the blonde man, murmuring, ' _papa Francis_ ' over and over. Arthur blinked at his nephew, his mouth sliding open, but he said nothing as Francis scooped him up and plopped himself into the empty chair next to Arthur, cradling Matthew against his chest.

"What are you doing here, frog?" Arthur finally asked once he located his voice, it seemed to have fallen right out of his mouth and dropped to the floor. _Papa Francis_...?

"You are sitting in an ER with a sick nephew, I could not hear of this and do nothing," Francis soothed Matthew's hair as the young boy snuggled into him, coughing weakly. Alfred bounded across the room, grinning.

"Francis!" he cried, bouncing up and down, "I was here the other day with my arm and now it's Mattie's turn!" he held up his cast cheerily, "do you want to sign it?" Francis smiled and said he would later, once they were all home and Matthew was feeling better. Arthur instructed Alfred to sit quietly in one of the chairs and leave the other patients alone; it was the middle of the night, not everyone needed a five year old chatting at them. He also didn't want Alfred to catch anything...

"You look exhausted, Arthur," Francis said quietly, leaning his head against the wall behind his chair and looking at Arthur through the hair that had escaped his ponytail.

"I am bloody exhausted," he admitted. It had been a long week. Matthew had a coughing fit and Francis rubbed his back while making soothing noises, Arthur let Alfred crawl into his lap as he watched his brother with wide, worried eyes.

Arthur meant only to close his eyes for only a moment, letting his exhaustion finally claim him, but when he opened them next Francis was rubbing his shoulder and calling his name softly.

"They are ready to take Matthew in to see the doctor now, _cher_. Do you want me to go instead and you can go home with Alfred?" Arthur shook his head, in reply and to shake the cotton from his mind and wake himself up. Matthew was standing and rubbing his eyes and Alfred was curled up on an empty chair, asleep.

"No, I'll go, but do you you think you could take Alfred home?" Francis nodded and took Arthur's house keys, the sleeping boy, and dropped a kiss to Matthew's head before turning to leave. "I'll see you at home then," he waved over his shoulder. Arthur watched him go and chewed his bottom lip. Francis, the annoying office mate, was carrying his elder nephew with Arthur's house keys jingling off one of his fingers, _going home_. To _his_ home. Where he would still be when Arthur eventually returned. Warmth spread through his chest and something fluttered there, something he quickly covered up with a cough and he tore his eyes away from the blonde man slipping through the emergency room doors and to the parking lot beyond.

' _Papa Francis._ '

.

The sky was a dull grey when Arthur drove home. Matthew was finally released from the hospital after a chest x-ray and given a course of antibiotics and inhalers and strict instructions on how to take both; he was diagnosed with pneumonia and Arthur felt a chill run through his veins as soon as the tired-looking doctors put his x-ray up on the lighted wall and casually announced it. The doctor had said, "nothing to worry about, just keep an eye on him." But Arthur felt like he had broken something precious, something that didn't technically belong to him. How did Matthew catch pneumonia?! "It's going around right now," the doctor mentioned, writing on his prescription pad, "keep giving him medicine to keep his fever down, take this to the pharmacy down the hall and give him his first dose of antibiotics when you get home. Make sure you follow-up with a doctor after ten days so someone can listen to his chest. Come back if he gets worse." Arthur thanked the doctor and collected his sleepy nephew.

The window belonging to the boy's room was lit up by the small bedside lamp, and Arthur could not help but smile knowing he was not returning home to an empty house. He carried Matthew inside and crept up the stairs. Pushing the door to the boy's room open he paused and stared, Francis was laying at the edge of the bed, curling around Alfred who was star-fished and snoring loudly. Francis stirred, looking over his shoulder and smiling sleepily.

" _Bonjour_ ," he called softly, untangling himself from the small boy, doing his best not to wake him, and sitting up. "How is little _Matthieu_?" Arthur sighed and explained what the doctor had said, carefully laying Mattie down in the bed once Francis rose to his feet. He took Francis by his wrist and pulled him from the room.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, he wasn't sure what he was even feeling. He was too tired, only having slept a handful of hours in the last few days. Francis was here and he felt like a friendly, comforting face. It was odd to consider the Frenchman as his shred of normalcy in his current life. Francis was the one thing that seemed familiar right now, constant, and vaguely like routine. He knew how to handle Francis, and that was a comfort. So he pulled Francis to his bedroom and ignored the noise of surprise that the other man made in the back of his throat when he climbed into bed, still holding on to the blonde man, and pulling him down into it as well. Francis lay next to him, eyes wide, but he did not make any sound of protest, so Arthur continued to tell him about what happened at the hospital.

After several minutes of talking, and with his eyes growing heavier, he allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

.

Francis was awakened by a small hand tapping his forearm.

The dull sense of unfamiliarity washing over him – the bed was too soft, there was something heavy draped over his waist, and he could feel warm and even breaths on the back of his neck. When he slowly willed his eyes open, the tapping on his arm growing more insistent and accompanied by quiet whines, two giant blue eyes were blinking up at him.

"Francis?"

"Alfred," he mumbled in acknowledgement.

"I'm hungry..." the boy whispered, still prodding on the Frenchman's arms. By the amount of light streaming in from the window at the end of the room, it had to be late in the morning, if not noon by now. He did not want to get out of bed, not when Arthur was wound around him, sleeping deeply, face pressed to the back of his neck. He did not want to untangle himself from the Brit who was, for once, silent and peaceful and finally catching up on the sleep he had lost throughout the week. He wanted to roll over and watch Arthur sleep, to see what his face looked like completely relaxed.

Instead, he sighed heavily and sat up, Arthur's arm sliding off of him and onto the bed somewhere behind him.

"Alright, _petit lapin_ , let us find something to eat." Alfred grinned and grabbed Francis by the hand, dragging him to his feet and out of the room.

In the kitchen, Francis assembled the ingredients for pancakes. Alfred helped stir the batter while France sliced up a couple apples he found in a bowl on the counter. He eventually located a frying pan and was flipping cooked pancakes onto a plate when Matthew wandered into the kitchen rubbing his eyes wearing nothing but his underwear. He did not say anything, only making small whining noises.

"How are you feeling, _mon petit chou_?" Matthew simply shook his head and sniffled. Francis finished making the pancakes and set them on the little kitchen table with Alfred, already sitting in his chair with a fork and knife gripped tight in each hand. He scooped Matthew into his arms and went on the hunt for the medicine for his fever and the antibiotics Arthur had mentioned before falling asleep. He pushed Arthur from his mind and tried to focus on the boy in his arms, whining under each rattly breath.

He set him up on the couch with a blanket and sippy cup of orange juice (he didn't want to eat anything) and he put on a movie (Mary Poppins, Francis picked) and returned to the kitchen in time to see Alfred sliding off his chair and running for the living room to sit with Mattie.

"Wash your hands first, Alfred! Arthur won't want sticky syrup fingers on the furniture!" he watched to make sure he saw Alfred divert to the hall bathroom.

He slumped into a kitchen chair and dropped his elbows to the table, holding his head in his hands. _He spent the night at Arthur's house._ He spent the night at Arthur's house and his spending the night had nothing to do with _sex_. He spent the night sleeping in Arthur's bed and eventually tangled up in Arthur's arms and woke with Arthur's face pressed to the back of his neck. He had done all of these things and now there was a terrible warmth spreading through his chest, an emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it was stirring up butterflies in his stomach and the backs of his knees felt like they were buzzing. He wanted to creep back upstairs and slide back into the too-soft bed with the Englishman, but he wasn't sure what would happen if he were to do that. Arthur was almost drunk with exhaustion when he had pulled Francis into his room with him – had he meant to do it at all? Or was it simply him acting out of tiredness? Was it only some instinct to go to sleep with someone else laying there?

And now he could not get the image of Arthur kissing him back at their office out of his mind. He could hear Antonio's speech on love ringing in his ears. The back of his eyelids were showing the memories of sitting in church with Arthur at his side and the conversation in the foyer that had followed.

"Francis," he nearly jumped out of his chair as he jerked his head up to meet Arthur's gaze. His eyes looked cautious, his mouth was drawn in a line, he was wrapping himself in a housecoat almost protectively. "You made breakfast?" he cleared his throat, "thank you."

" _Oui_. I apologize, I forgot to put tea on..." Had it always felt this awkward between them?

"That's alright." He watched as Arthur moved about the kitchen, turning on his kettle and filling his plate with pancakes and apple slices. He turned and hesitated before joining Francis at the table. He stared at the food on his plate and Francis stared at him.

"I slept in your bed last night," he said at the same time Arthur said, "you slept in my bed last night." Their eyes met across the table while the kettle whirred, the water began to boil, and it clicked off, tossing the kitchen into a heavy silence, only broken by the faint sounds of Mary Poppins playing in the living room around the corner.

"Arthur, why did you kiss me?" He could no longer take the wondering, he couldn't figure him out. Arthur himself had said it was all part of the game they seemed to be playing, but all of this actions that followed screamed the opposite. How was he supposed to react, to _feel_ , when Arthur seemed to be changing directions every time he saw him? Arthur looked startled and immediately rose from the table to fix himself a cup of tea. He did not ask Francis if he wanted any, but brought a second cup with him when he finally returned to the table. His cheeks were flushed.

"I'm not sure I under-"

" _Mon dieu_ , Arthur, don't give me that crap. What are we _doing_? What is happening between us?" he did not say aloud the rest of his thought: ' _because I'm falling in love with you more and more every moment we are together and I do not know if I can continue with this if I don't know what you plan to do with the heart I am prepared to leave at your feet_.' Arthur was annoyingly silent once again, staring into his steaming mug like it held the answers to Francis' questions. He wondered if he should get up and leave, save himself the heartache and distance himself from the Brit. Francis wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, to scream into his face until Arthur understood – until Francis understood. This was not the breed of love he was used to. Yes, he was attracted to Arthur and he wanted nothing more than to tear away the hideous housecoat he was wrapped up in, bend him over the very table they were sitting at and have his way with him; but, Francis also desired to sit at Arthur's feet and stare up at him, to listen to any of the words that tumbled out of those lips, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close. He want to feel their lips together in slow, mutual kiss, not impassioned and angry like in the office. He wanted to take his time and soak up everything that Arthur tasted of, to explore the sensation of their mouths joined together. He wanted to share his secrets with Arthur and sit on the grass in comfortable silence. He wanted to learn about him and be with him and just bask in his presence. Was that normal? Was _this_ the beginnings of love that Antonio had told him about? Was this how it felt? Because, while wonderful on the surface, it _hurt_.

His original plan had been to turn this around and back into a game, but now that Francis was staring into Arthur's green eyes, he wanted to have nothing to do with the games he used to play. He wanted something honest and _real_. Sitting with Arthur in the small kitchen made him feel...

He did not have the time to mentally finish his thought before Arthur opened his mouth to respond.

"I don't know what we are, Francis, I haven't figured it out yet. We were once just co‑workers, but we seemed to have skipped over friends and moved on to something else. I..." his cheeks warmed and he began to fidget with his housecoat and Francis searched his eyes for a clue as to what he was going to say next. He wanted to scream, ' _yes_? _You_ _what_? _What is it_?!' But Arthur did not speak again, he cast his eyes down and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He squirmed in his seat, his fingers drumming on the side of his mug, he cleared his throat.

Francis couldn't take it.

He summoned up whatever calmness he had left in him and rose from his seat, he walked around the table, and knelt in front of Arthur, forcing his green eyes to lock on to his own blue. He reached a hand up and cupped Arthur's cheek, the warmth from his blush spreading into his hand and likely igniting a matching one in his own cheeks. He ran his thumb under Arthur's eye, admiring everything about his face. How his brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes flashed with whatever reeling emotions were likely flying through his head, he admired the bridge of his nose all the way to its tip; he admired the curve of his mouth, his swollen bottom lip from being dragged under his relentless teeth. He leaned up and pressed his lips to Arthur's, sliding his hand into his unruly, dirty-blonde hair.

Time stood still while he waited for a reaction, afraid one would not come, but just before he was going to pull away, embarrassed and ashamed, Arthur's mouth moved against his own, returning the kiss. Francis tilted his head and pressed into the connection, willing for Arthur to feel what he was, hoping he'd feel what Arthur was, to understand what it was he was thinking about, what he had been going to say but didn't have the courage.

' _I'm falling in love with you,_ ' he made his lips say, ' _I'm falling in love with you and it scares me and it thrills me and, dammit, I hope you feel the same._ ' Arthur's hands found their wait to Francis' own hair and tangled in it, pulling him closer. It was Arthur's tongue on Francis' lips, sweeping across them and asking for more, unusually bold and Francis was more than happy to comply. He did not give up control easily, he had been the one to initiate, he would not let Arthur take this over. Tongues battled against each other, fighting to take the lead of the kiss which was quickly growing more intense the longer they were connected.

They kissed until their breathing was fast and heavy and Francis pulled away, his knees aching from the cold kitchen floor, but it hardly mattered. He stared up into Arthur's eyes, trying to read what they were saying.

"God, Francis," Arthur breathed, "you're so... I'm just..." he groaned in frustration before leaning down and kissing Francis again hard on the mouth.

* * *

 **AN:** Sorry this took so long to post!

*40 degrees Celsius is 104 degrees Fahrenheit. This is a fairly high fever for children.

BTW. Follow me on Tumblr? (username: une-pomm3). **You may ALWAYS message me and ask what I'm currently working on or ask when I anticipate to release the next chapter**! (I sometimes share snippets with what I'm currently working on, too!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Life and Style**

 **Chapter Nine**

* * *

Arthur was losing himself in Francis.

He had pulled Francis to his feet, and Francis pushed Arthur up against the kitchen counter where it was currently digging into his back. Francis' mouth was like velvet, his tongue silken, his taste intoxicating. His hands were roaming deliciously and Arthur was mildly embarrassed somewhere in the back of his mind at the drawn-out sigh that escaped him when Francis moved his mouth to attack his neck. His teeth grazed at the delicate skin under his ear, his tongue darting out, his lips enclosing around his earlobe. Dear God, who knew being kissed around the ears would feel so _divine_?

He clung to Francis like he was his lifeline, his fists clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer. They weren't close enough, he needed to feel that Francis' heart was pounding just as erratically as his own, he needed to know if Francis was also feeling like his skin was electrically charged. Was he experiencing this, or was it just Arthur? Could he feel how hot Arthur suddenly felt, like the blood in his veins had turned to lava? He was burning up from the inside out and it felt wonderful. The heat was coiling in his core like a snake ready to strike, and all he could do was hang on to Francis and wait for it to pass. His ears were ringing.

He was forgetting where he was. _What was Francis doing with those lips of his_? The world was sliding away and ceasing to matter at all. He didn't care that it was morning and his nephews were just in the other room, it didn't matter that Francis likely had to get to work; all he desired in this world was to tilt his head to the side and give Francis more of his skin to devour. _There were far too many clothes on between them_. He needed Francis' mouth _everywhere_.

When that thought processed in his sluggish, lust-hazed mind, he planted the heels of his hands firmly on Francis' chest and shoved him away as hard as he could.

"What the hell are we doing, frog?" Arthur barked suddenly. He could feel the blood rushing into his cheeks, his limbs felt like they were humming and everywhere Francis' lips had been tingled.

"I would have thought that was obvious," Francis quirked a brow while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was smirking and this made anger bubble up in Arthur's gut. How dare he smirk and play this off like a game. His heart was pounding in his chest.

"I can't be kissing you," oh but God, he wanted to. He wanted to pull him back and press their lips together again and never let him go until he'd had his fill.

"Why not?"

" _Why not_?" Arthur spluttered, trying to compose himself in case either of his nephews happened to come into the kitchen. He ran his hands through his hair and smoothed his housecoat, wrapping it tighter around him. "Because my very young nephews are in the next room and-and- because, quite frankly, it's _you_." Hurt flashed across Francis' face for a moment before settling into a scowl.

"I see," he said.

"Francis," Arthur sighed, "that's not what I meant. I mean, it is, but not... however you're taking it. I just... you are...?" he wasn't sure exactly what to say. _Dammit_. He liked Francis, he could no longer deny it. He had been having enough dreams about him to signal that he was at least attracted to the man, but he was also coming to realize that he loved his mind and his confidence. But Francis was _Francis_. He had spent months listening to his romantic exploits at work and he didn't want to simply become another notch on the bedpost. Was Francis even capable of having a meaningful relationship? Arthur didn't want to reduce the man to a few traits, but he hardly knew him outside of work.

And yet... Arthur thought of him as kind and thoughtful. He was an excellent cook and good with children. He was tidy – at least at Arthur's house he was. He smelled good and he murmured the most adorable things in his sleep. He was warm and fit nicely inside Arthur's arms.

"I need to write." Arthur felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him and he rubbed a hand down his face, sighing heavily.

"Arthur," Francis took a step forward, reaching his hand out to brush against Arthur's waist; it was the barest of contact, but Arthur still felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him at the sensation of Francis' fingers anywhere near him. "Arthur, I..." his voice was pleading and annoyingly genuine, "I _like_ you." It sounded like there would have been more to that sentence, but Arthur held up a hand to stop him, refusing to meet his gaze. He would fall into that blue-eyed trap and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from spilling out his heart. He would be caught, forced to listen to whatever Francis had to say, _and then what_? Was there a happy ending anywhere near this situation?

"You should get to work," he said at last, dropping his gaze to the floor. He was feeling entirely too vulnerable at the moment, fully aware that he would not be able to stop himself from kissing Francis passionately again if any other words of affection were uttered in the too-silent kitchen. Thankfully, Francis seemed to sense the unease and turned to leave without another word.

As soon as Francis was safely out of his house, he shuffled to his study.

"Boys, Uncle Art is feeling very tired today, please try and play quietly." He shut himself in his study and sat at his long-neglected laptop.

The blank page would have intimidated him had it been only a few months prior to this exact moment. Now, the teasing, blinking cursor soothed him, beckoning him to release his thoughts like telling secrets to an old friend. He sighed happily and stared at the expanse of white before he let his fingers dance across the keyboard, pouring out his thoughts and staining the white with his words.

He had no direction for his writing, only desiring to get it _out_ , to clear his head. There was far too much thinking going on and not enough sorting. Things were messy, he needed to dust off the cobwebs and see his mind laid out before him so he could pick through it and put it back into proper order. This whole process used to be part of his daily routine, the routine that was quickly abandoned once his nephews came to stay with him. There was so much stuffed into his brain he could hardly type fast enough once the dam was broken.

He did not stop typing until he realized the words on the pages were no longer making sense, the screen was swimming and a sweat had broken out across his brow. He sat back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, his shoulders cracking and releasing the tension he hadn't realized had built up.

There was a soft knock at his study door, the door cracked open, a pair of bright blue eyes peeked in.

"Uncle Art?"

"It's alright Alfred, what's troubling you?" the door opened further and Alfred stood there, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "Is Matthew alright?"

"Yes, he is fine, but, um, there is someone at the door for you," Arthur hadn't even heard the door ring. He nodded and rose to his feet, following his nephew to the entryway.

There in the doorway was a man holding a vase of white lilies, a clipboard outstretched with a pen attached to a string dangling from it.

"Order for a Mr. Arthur Kirkland," the man at the door said, smiling. Arthur signed for the flowers and was left standing, bewildered, as the delivery van drove away.

"Who are they from?" Matthew called from the living room, his eyes peeking up over the back of the sofa, the credits of Mary Poppins rolling up the TV screen.

There was no card attached, but Arthur could hazard a guess. An hour later, a very large, ostentatious bouquet of red roses arrived for him, this time a card simply stating, " _I like you_ ," written in a flourish. Arthur huffed and placed them on the table next to the lilies.

"These are the flowers I said I liked on Sunday," Alfred told Arthur helpfully while he made the boys peanut butter and honey sandwiches for lunch ("I want banana slices in mine!" Matthew requested, desiring to eat something solid for the first time days).

And so they were, the roses and the lilies both the favourites each of the boys had suggested when Francis asked. What had Arthur said were his? He never really considered having a favourite flower. He enjoyed gardens, though he didn't think he could pin down one variety that he liked best; he had given some-sort of answer, he just couldn't recall.

He was feeling exhausted by late afternoon, the sweat on his brow never quite leaving, despite the day feeling rather cool. He had a bit of a tickle in the back of his throat, which he wrote off as a symptom from yelling at the boys to turn the volume of the TV down while he wrote in his office.

He got the answer to his own flower question when a knock at the door revealed a delivery man, arms laden with a very large flat of cacti and succulents of every variety Arthur had ever seen before, and many more he hadn't.

"Bloody hell, frog," Arthur ground out as he signed his name on a delivery slip for the third time that day, "did you buy out the whole florist?"

"They did," the delivery drive said helpfully, "I had to pick some of these up from the supplier directly just to get all the varieties that were requested. It's not an easy time of year to find zygo cactus! Luckily, there was a greenhouse across town growing them already this year, so..." the driver tipped his hat as he bounded down Arthur's drive and back into his truck... to retrieve another flat of cactus and succulents... and then another.

There was no note, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who they were from.

The moment he was able, Arthur took up his phone and dialed the familiar number to the office, pressing the extension for Francis' desk.

He didn't even wait for Francis to finish his greeting when he picked up the phone, "what the hell am I supposed to do with forty-five cactus plants, you idiot? It's a safety hazard at this point. The living room was completely filled – the boys weren't allowed to play in there until I had moved every last bloody plant to my study," Arthur wiped the sweat building on his brow and steadied himself against the kitchen counter when his world suddenly started to tilt. "Now I don't have anywhere to do my writing because my office is a _fucking desert_." Arthur could hear Francis chuckling on the other end of the phone.

"You said they were your favourite, _mon petit_ _rosbif_!" he laughed, "I wanted to do something special for you!"

"They are hardly my favourite, you cheese-loving idiot, they-" he had to steady himself again. "-you put me on the spot and I had to say _something_."

"Arthur, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm perfectly fine. I'm just a little tired, I haven't been sleeping very well."  
He wasn't sure if he even finished his sentence. One moment he was upright and talking, the next the phone was falling from his hands and hitting the kitchen floor; he didn't even hear it drop, his ears were ringing so loudly. Then, he was laying on the floor staring up at the kitchen ceiling, little Alfred leaning over him with wide, worried, blue eyes.

"He's awake now, papa Francis," Alfred said into the phone, holding it to his ear with shaking hands. Arthur wanted to chide him for calling Francis something so ridiculous, but his ability to speak seemed to be missing entirely; he was helpless except to blink up at his nephew, his vision swimming. He struggled to keep his eyes open and focus on the one-sided conversation his young, impressionable nephew was having with the Frenchman.

"Okay," he heard Alfred say in a wavering tone, "I can do that. And you'll be quick? Okay." Alfred disconnected the call then carefully dialed another number. "Hello, my name is Alfred Jones and Uncle Art fell in the kitchen and he's not talking and papa Francis isn't home yet." He listened for a moment and then recited Arthur's home address. Arthur wondered somewhere in the back of his mind if Alfred was calling for an ambulance, which was ridiculous. He was just a little tired, he just needed to close his eyes for a moment and get some sleep...

Arthur was not sure how much time had passed when he was suddenly aware of a conversation going on around him. He kept his eyes closed while he felt himself rise to wakefulness.

"...Your husband collapsed from exhaustion... make sure he eats something..."

"I can't believe I didn't notice he hadn't been eating. I guess I've just been so busy with work." Arthur furrowed his brow; that sounded awfully like _Francis_.

"It happens. We have him on an IV right now, so he'll be alright. We just need to wait for him to wake up." An unknown voice.

"He's awake!" Alfred. "Papa, he's awake!" There was the distinct sound of shuffling and then he felt the surface he was laying on depress as someone sat beside him; a cool hand was pressed to his forehead.

"Arthur?" That damn Frenchman sang out his name like it belonged on his lips. "Can you hear me?"

"I saw him crinkle his nose!" Alfred cried. He must have climbed onto the bed, it jostled almost violently and Arthur could imagine him getting up to jump up and down.

"Be careful, Alfie," Matthew said quietly from somewhere else in the room, farther away from where Arthur was laying.

"Mr. Kirkland," the unfamiliar voice again, "your nephews and husband are here to take you home." Arthur's eyes snapped open at that.

"Pardon me?" his voice croaked, but he was relieved that it worked at all. A sharp pain in his skull screamed at him the moment his eyes were open, struggling to focus first on the tiled ceiling, then Francis' sheepish face leaning over him, and finally to a doctor in teal scrubs smiling behind a face mask.

"Welcome back, Mr. Kirkland," said the doctor.

"No, go back to the part about the _husband_." Arthur turned his attention to Francis who was beginning to laugh nervously.

" _Mon amour_ ," he said, leaning forward and sliding his hand from Arthur's forehead to cup his cheek, "did you hit your head when you fell?" He chuckled in a charming way, but his eyes definitely looked like they were screaming. ' _Play along, play along, play along,_ ' they begged.

"My _dear_ ," Arthur ground out, "I guess I'm just always surprised when I realize I get to spend every day of the rest of my life with you. Also, where is my ring?"

"You must have taken it off while cleaning."

"Uncle Art," Matthew appeared at Arthur's side, "I thought you said that papa Francis wasn't your boyfriend?" Francis gasped and scooped little Matthew up into his lap, clapping a hand down over his mouth.

" _Matthieu_! You are so cute when you are over-tired. Come boys, let's go see if Uncle Lukas is here yet to take you home. Doesn't that sound fun, hmm?"

"Please tell me you have something that will put me back to sleep?" Arthur asked the doctor and tried not to roll his eyes when he looked mildly confused.

.

Francis clutched Matthew close to him and held Alfred's hand tightly as he walked away from Arthur's room towards the hospital's main lobby where he hoped Lukas would be waiting.

Of course it had been a stupid idea to tell the entire hospital that Arthur was his husband and these were their adopted nephews from a troubled sister-in-law. The boys hardly seemed to notice any lies and had kept their mouths shut. This was all just so Francis could be in the room when Arthur woke up and in the know with what happened to him, of course.

He had heard Arthur hit the floor and panicked, rising to his feet at his desk and crying out for Arthur to answer him. Ludwig had looked up from his desk, his expression just as stony as always, but his eyes were concerned when Francis began to panic until little Alfred came onto the line.

"Hello?" his voice was so little and frightened.

"Alfred, is that you? It's Francis! What happened?" Alfred explained that Uncle Art was laying on the ground and very pale, but he was breathing. Francis tried to keep his voice calm as he explained to Alfred to call for an ambulance, promising that he would be there right away. He was already shutting down his computer and gathering his coat before the call disconnected.

"Something happened to Arthur," Francis had told Ludwig as he fled the office, "let Roderich know, it's an emergency!"

"Call when you know what happened!" Ludwig had called after him and Francis raised his hand in acknowledgement as he raced down the hall towards the elevators.

He was very glad no police caught him as he drove to Arthur's house, driving well enough over the speed limit to have been given a ticket for reckless driving and street racing. He had arrived at the same time as the ambulance.

Arthur was awake when the paramedics arrived, but not very coherent. Francis gathered up Alfred and Matthew and packed them into his car as they followed the ambulance back to the hospital.

"What is your relation to the patient?" the nurse asked as soon as Francis exploded into the Emergency Room, running after the bed they were wheeling Arthur in on.

"What?" he had paused only a moment, watching them take Arthur to an examining room, "he's my husband!" Everyone waved him through without a second thought after that, letting him hold Alfred and Matthew close to his side with one arm, the other hand clutching at Arthur's while doctors checked him.

Just exhaustion and dehydration and not enough food.

Francis almost passed out from relief, then anger that Arthur was clearly neglecting himself. The Brit was going to be the death of him.

Lukas was speaking with an information clerk at the front desk when Francis stepped off the elevator, both boys pulling at his hands and asking questions he didn't have the energy to listen or respond to.

"Lukas!"

"Bonnefoy," Lukas nodded to the clerk behind the desk before meeting Francis halfway; he dropped to his knees when he was close, smiling at Alfred and Matthew. Francis transferred the small hands in his own to his co-worker, " _Uncle_ Lukas" and explained Matthew's medications (which he had the forethought to grab before leaving Arthur's house earlier that day, thank goodness). Lukas nodded in understanding and took the boys away, promising a super fun night with him and Matthias while Uncle Art got better.

.

"I don't need you to hover over me like a mother hen, Francis," Arthur grumbled as Francis wheeled him in his chair towards the hospital exit. He had been discharged with the solemn promise that Francis, Arthur's 'husband', would take a few days off work and 'nurture him back to full health'. Arthur was, of course, not pleased at the notion, but the doctor smiled and said it was a wonderful idea and signed his paperwork with a happy flourish.

"Oh _oui_ , you do! We would not be in this situation otherwise. I insist. The boys are with Lukas until at least tomorrow, which ensures you will get proper rest this evening." Arthur grumbled, but did not protest when Francis looped their arms together and hauled the Brit to his feet, slowly shuffling him through the double glass doors and out into the parking lot. The sun had long ago set and they walked in silence towards Francis' car.

When Francis slid into the driver's side Arthur finally spoke again, "thank you for coming," he looked rather sheepish, and in the pale light cast by a light post Francis could make out a faint blush blooming in his cheeks.

" _De rien_ , you are welcome." Francis started the car then turned to Arthur, desiring very much to reach out a hand and press it to Arthur's cheek; he gripped the steering wheel tight in his hands, instead. "I wish you had told me sooner you were feeling unwell."

"I didn't realize-"

"Just don't scare me like that again, _oui_? And poor Alfred who found you. You, _dieu_ Arthur, you need to think about yourself, too." He began to manoeuvre the car out of the lot in order to save himself from grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and shaking him violently. Didn't he care that Francis' heart at leapt into his throat when he heard Arthur's voice waver on the phone? Didn't he realize that his blood ran cold when his voice suddenly disappeared and was followed by the clatter of the phone hitting the floor and then the dull thud as Arthur followed it? Did he really not have a clue how scared Francis was as he called Arthur's name into the receiver, hoping he would answer him, and the fear that ran through him when it was Alfred who finally responded, quietly telling him that Arthur was unconscious? He swallowed back the apple-sized lump that was beginning to form in his throat as he drove in the dark, his headlights sweeping the streets as he turned them towards Arthur's house.

Arthur's hands were balled into tight fists in his lap when Francis finally pulled into the driveway of Arthur's house. The front garden had been neglected as of late, the flowers were beginning to wither. Francis would water them in the morning.

He turned off his car and moved to exit - "What are you doing?" Francis blinked at Arthur.

"Getting out of the car?"

"Why?"

"So I can go into the house?"

"Why are you coming into my house?" Arthur glowered and Francis laughed.

"M _on petit ami_ , I promised I would be a good 'husband' and nurse you back to full health. I cannot do this from my own apartment." He waved his hands, shooing Arthur from the car. "No, _aller_! Let's get you inside! I will draw you a bath, I will make you some soup, then you will go to bed."

"You're being ridiculous." Arthur slid from the car.

"Aha, but I am being ridiculous for you, so it makes it all okay." Francis winked and Arthur blushed behind his angry expression.

They entered the house arm-in-arm.

* * *

 **AN:** WOW THIS TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE AND POST I AM SO SORRY.

Thanks **Boffinness** for giving me the kick in the butt I needed to get motivated, and giving it a read-through prior to posting!


	10. Chapter 10

**Life and Style**

 **Chapter 10**

* * *

 **AN:** This chapter is terribly _domestic_. That is all. -Apple

* * *

Arthur allowed Francis to shove him towards the bathroom when the tub was full of steaming water; he didn't complain when he noticed the Frenchman had filled it with some of the boys' bubble-bath. Arthur refused to let Francis spoon-feed him soup (how did he make soup? Arthur was certain he was in dire need of groceries, and yet there was a pot simmering on the stove when Arthur came back downstairs from his bath), but he allowed Francis to hover nearby in case he suddenly 'needed help.' Arthur kept his grumbling to a minimum when Francis insisted he put his pajamas through he dryer for a few minutes before putting them on, he tolerated when Francis grabbed his hand and pulled him to his bedroom, and he only rolled his eyes twice as Francis pushed him into his bed and tucked the blankets in snug around him.

He had words when Francis suddenly crawled onto the bed next to him and snuggled down like he would be staying there for the night.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep, shh, _mon ami_. It is late."

"Yes, it is late; therefore, you should probably go home to sleep in your own bed before you are too tired to drive."

" _Non_ ," Francis only nestled further into the bed and shushed Arthur when he tried to protest any further.

He glared up at his darkened ceiling, Francis' arm snaking across his chest and hugging him tightly, his long blonde hair was tickling the side of Arthur's face. He stayed quiet as he lay inside his burrito of blankets and tried to still his reeling thoughts. When Francis' breathing started to even out he finally spoke again: "Frog," he said and Francis flinched, "if you are going to be spending the night, you may as well get _under the covers._ "

"Mm, _non_ , I have to make sure you stay cozy," he heard mumbled from his side. Arthur tried to object, but was 'hushed', and finally made silent when Francis' fingers pressed against his lips. Arthur allowed himself the luxury of falling into a comfortable, _quiet_ sleep after several minutes of exasperated sighs.

When Arthur awoke the next morning Francis was shivering on top of the blankets, his face burrowed into Arthur's shoulder and arms wrapped around him, clutching at the sheets and holding him close. Arthur blinked up at his ceiling for several minutes, listening to the even breathing next to him; he was too warm. He tried to move without waking the Frenchman next to him, but as soon as he started to untangle himself from his bed and the body on top of it, Francis' even breathing ceased and he startled awake.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm getting up," Arthur sat up and pushed Francis' hands off him. Francis weakly protested, still half asleep, his fingers barely able to grasp Arthur's shirt as he wiggled out of the blankets and out of bed.

" _Nooooon_ , stay," he murmured several more phrases feebly in French that Arthur couldn't be bothered to figure out as he covered Francis in the blankets that were still warm from his own body heat.

It was noon before Arthur saw Francis finally emerge from upstairs, his hair mussed from sleep, rubbing his eyes. He was writing in his study, fingers flying across the keyboard after he was struck by a wave of inspiration while making his morning tea; he had been writing steadily since.

"Welcome to the land of the living," Arthur said, saving his document and leaning back in his chair. Francis scoffed. "Lukas called a little while ago. He will be bringing the boys home after dinner this evening. He says they are behaving well and Matthew seems to be feeling much better and they both slept through the night." Francis nodded and leaned against the doorway, wrapping his arms around himself.

"How are _you_ feeling?"

"Much better, thank you. I'm sorry I caused you any sort of trouble last night," Arthur was mildly embarrassed by the previous evening's events. He had not intended to let himself fall ill so suddenly – he hadn't even realized that he had been neglecting himself. He thought had been eating and drinking and getting enough sleep – but, as he reflected, he realized perhaps he had been too focused on making sure the boys were eating, drinking, and getting to bed on time (and then staying there). He didn't particularly enjoy feeling so weak, and then having to be rescued by his... what was Francis to him, now? He was more than a coworker and more than a simple friend... He _liked_ him, Francis said he returned the feelings... so now what? He was a little embarrassed to admit that the sound of Francis calling himself his husband so freely while in the hospital sent a shiver up and down his spine, stirring up butterflies as it went. And all of this playing house was rather enjoyable – he was a little afraid that it would likely be coming to an end shortly.

" _Dieu_ , this is a lot of cacti, isn't it?" While Arthur had been lost in his thoughts, Francis had wandered further into the office and was admiring the many, many cactus plants that were shoved onto every available surface – there was only a space large enough for Arthur's laptop on his desk. Arthur didn't respond, but did give Francis a halfhearted glare. While they were certainly troublesome, it was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever paid him. Being a first as it was, he felt inclined to keep all of the cacti; although, what he was going to do with them he wasn't sure. He couldn't very well continue to survive in an office cluttered with desert plants.

He snorted when Francis pricked his finger and hissed, finally leaving the room while muttering French under his breath.

Arthur waited exactly one minute and 45 seconds before he left his office, trailing after Francis. He found him in the downstairs powder-room affixing a bright blue bandage to his finger.

"Did it really get you that badly?"

" _Oui_."

"What would make it better?" Arthur squeezed into the room with him and, in a fit of courage, took Francis' hands into his own and finished placing the bandage around his finger. Francis looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes – who knew he could adopt such an expression?

" _Un baiser_ ," Francis whispered the words, then hurriedly cleared his throat and tried to cover up the blush heating his cheeks with a charming laugh, "kiss it better for me, _rosbif_!"

Arthur's heart started to pound in his chest as he very slowly raised Francis' hand to his lips, never once looking away from his eyes. He pressed the bandaged finger to his mouth and kissed it. Then he kissed Francis' knuckles, then the top of his hand, he turned it and kissed his palm and his wrist next. He pulled Francis closer half a step and continued to pepper light kisses up his arm until he reached the inside of his elbow. Francis was breathing heavily, gnawing on his bottom lip and watching Arthur through half-lidded eyes.

What was he doing? He wasn't sure, all he knew was that, _dammit_ , he wanted Francis. Arthur pulled him closer still and let his other hand float up into his hair, marvelling at the softness, despite the knots from sleeping. He tangled his fingers in it and gently tilted his head as he leaned in, hovering with their lips barely touching.

This was it. This was the moment that would tip the scales on their relationship. If he leaned in and kissed Francis now, he could no longer pretend they were just coworkers. If he kissed him now, he would have to admit aloud that he was falling for him and his damn antics. He enjoyed waking up with him nearby, it was comforting coming down to the kitchen in the morning and seeing him there, he liked watching him interact with his nephews. He wanted to hold his hand and kiss him and-

Francis was done waiting for him to make up his mind, and his tilted his chin, closing the remaining distance between them and joining their lips. Arthur sucked in air through his nose, stiffening for a moment before allowing himself to melt into the kiss. He was warm and he felt like velvet and the way he was kissing Arthur made him truly believe that he was the only one in the world he ever wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. Francis moaned and the sound shot through Arthur and he backed him up against the small vanity, finally releasing Francis' arm and trailing his hand down his side, his fingertips digging into his hip as he pulled at him, wanting them to be closer than they already were.

"Arthur, wait," Francis pushed him away and Arthur blinked, "I don't want this to be another episode of you kissing me then insisting it meant nothing and pulling me along in some sort of...?" he made a noise in the back of his throat and Arthur shook his head, the word ' _game_ ' hung heavy in the air between them and Arthur's chest clenched painfully that the 'game' was associated with _him_. "I need to hear that this isn't just... I need you to say that.. _merde_ , Arthur, surely you know what I mean. Please, put me out of my misery. I'm falling in love with you and I need to hear your actual thoughts on that so I can either kiss you more or go home and drink a bottle of wine."

"I..." his tongue felt too thick for his mouth and like it weighed more than his entire self. It stuck to the roof of his mouth and no matter how many times he swallowed, he couldn't convince it to work and say the words that he was mentally screaming. He was trapped in his head and all he could do was gape at Francis and blink stupidly while he watched the happiness drain out of those blue eyes and the thought that Arthur didn't care dawn on his features.

Francis started to turn away and Arthur panicked, reaching for him and kissing him again, hard, hoping to convey what his words suddenly could not. If he could just write down what he was thinking, perhaps he could organize his thoughts into something that made sense, something that Francis could read and understand; in the meantime, his actions would have to do. Francis, thankfully, seemed to understand and wrapped himself around Arthur, moving their mouths together like a rehearsed dance.

It was perfect.

.

It wasn't until 3 months later that Arthur very suddenly realized that his life had fallen back into one of routine and a strange sense of normalcy. What surprised him even more was that this included Francis. What bothered him especially is that he could pinpoint exactly when his world once again started to flip upside down; however, upon closer examination, he couldn't quite understand how things had changed so dramatically without his noticing.

Without fail, every Monday morning, he would awaken alone in his bed to the smell of coffee brewing and some sort of breakfast pastry being pulled out of his oven. He would wander down in his pajamas to find Francis puttering around the kitchen, Alfred and Matthew following him around and 'helping' as he made breakfast. He would turn and smile, give Arthur a peck on his cheek and set him down at his little table that looked out onto his back garden. Francis would drop of a plate of food and a cup of tea in front of him, Matthew and Alfred would take turns bringing him the morning paper, and he would read the news, eat his breakfast, drink his tea, and watch the birds in the feeder out back – just like he always used to. After breakfast Francis would instruct Arthur about the leftovers in the fridge and freezer, he'd give both boys a tight squeeze, another kiss for Arthur and he would bid adieu.

Tuesday through Thursday Arthur was alone with the boys, but Francis always left enough food and pre-made meals in the fridge so that none of them ever went hungry or had to 'suffer the consequence of British food.'

Friday evening would roll around and Francis would appear again, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and ready to make dinner. He would bathe the boys and tuck them into bed with a goodnight story, then return to the sitting room for a glass of brandy (or wine, in Francis' case), and discuss the goings-on at the office with Arthur. They would go to bed together – Francis never slept anywhere except next to Arthur.

Saturday morning everyone would sleep in, much to Arthur's delight. He would awaken happy and cozy, arms wrapped around him and Francis' face nuzzled into his neck. Once everyone was awake and after breakfast, Francis would don his bright yellow rubber gloves and begin handing out chores to the rest of the household. He would help Arthur teach Alfred and Matthew the proper way to clean a bathroom or to sweep the kitchen floor, leaving them simpler chores to do alone like picking up their toys, washing windows, or wiping down the banister. In the afternoon, once all chores were complete, the boys got to put up stickers on a chart that had suddenly appeared on Arthur's fridge next to their completed tasks; stickers translated into into points that could be exchanged for prizes from a little treasure chest that found its home inside Arthur's china cabinet.

Sunday morning the four of them piled into the car and went to church. Afterwards they always went out for breakfast, sometimes another family would join them, sometimes they would go alone. In the afternoons they would go to a park for a picnic, or to the cinema, or Alfred and Matthew would visit Uncle Lukas and Matthias while Francis and Arthur went off and did their own thing – like visit the sea and walk along the boardwalk or drive into the mountains and simply enjoy the scenery. "Boring adult stuff," as Alfred sadly described it.

Then the whole week repeated.

It was Saturday morning and Arthur was enjoying his tea before chores needed to be done when this settled in his mind. He slammed his cup down with a clatter and a shout, "wait just a bloody second!" Francis whirled around, wiping his hands on a pink apron he must have brought from his own apartment at some point. "How the hell did you do that?" He demanded to know and Francis blinked at him before settling in the chair opposite at the table, dropping his elbows to the surface and cupping his face in his hands. His hands were soapy from washing dishes, but he hardly seemed to notice as he smiled at Arthur.

" _Cher_ , it's half a grapefruit and a piece of toast, even you could manage that."

"Not the breakfast, you cheese-brain. How the hell did-" he waved his hands around the kitchen, indicating to everything "did you do _this_?"

"I am not certain I follow..."

"Francis Bonnefoy, you have insinuated yourself into every aspect of my life and lulled me into a false sense of routine. How did you do that?" Francis threw back his head and laughed while Arthur scowled. "There is a chore chart on my refrigerator! I'm pretty sure I saw a little neon green step-stool appear in my bathroom the other day. Also, now that I think about it, half the clothes in my own wardrobe don't belong to me. And when did my bed sheets get changed to – what are they now, they are-" Arthur sputtered, trying to find the word he was looking for.

"Silk?" Francis offered, reaching across the table and taking Arthur's toast. He bit into it, eyes shining as he watched Arthur work himself into a fit.

"Yes! Bloody silk bed sheets! I've never bought anything silken in my goddamn life! And another thing!" he roared, half-rising to his feet, "since when do I eat half a grapefruit for breakfast and – give me _that_ , frog," he snatched the toast from Francis' hands and stuffed it into his mouth.

"You've had half a grapefruit every other morning for breakfast for the last three months, _mon sourcils_ ," Francis passed Arthur a napkin and motioned for him to sit back down in his chair. Arthur did, accepting the napkin and dabbing at his face. "You bought the stool when we went grocery shopping last Saturday – Matthew kept getting water all over the counter when he washed his hands. And I brought the bed sheets from my own home because yours are so terribly scratchy," Arthur made a noise to interject, but Francis held up one of his fingers to silence him. " _J'taime_ , Arthur, but you can be so thick sometimes."

"I – you – _what_?!" Francis seemed to realize what just slipped past his lips at that moment; his eyes widened and it looked as if all the blood in his body was rising up into his face. He stared at Arthur long and hard for a moment, blinking rapidly. Meanwhile, Arthur felt very much like all of the blood in his body was draining out of him through the bottoms of his feet.

Love. He had been so distracted by enjoying the routine his life had adopted he hadn't even realized how much change had happened. And now that it was finally sinking in he was starting to realize that, perhaps, one reason why he felt so comfortable was because...

" _J'taime_ ," he heard himself whisper back. All the blood very suddenly reversed its course and started to run up to colour him from the roots of his hair all the way down his neck.

A scream and a crash from the front hall broke the tension in the room and both Francis and Arthur jumped to their feet.

"Uncle Art!" Alfred cried at the top of his lungs followed by a quieter, but no less distressed, "Papa Francis!" from little Matthew.

They were found by the front door, Alfred in nothing but his underwear and Matthew in his footie Pooh Bear pajamas, jumping up and down with a pink letter held between them. The rest of the mail was still on the floor under the door-slot, forgotten and deemed unimportant.

"This is from mummy, isn't it?" Alfred cried, ripping the half of the letter Matt was holding from his hands and thrusting it towards Arthur as he approached. Francis quickly scooped up Matthew who had begun to cry.

"This..." Arthur took the letter and turned it over, inspecting the curly writing on the front. He tore into it and unfolded the floral letter:

' _Dearest Art,_

 _How are you doing? How are the boys?_

 _You would not believe the adventures I am having (_ Arthur scoffed, "that's because you never email or call me." _)! I never imagined I could be so successful – moving here really was the best decision of my life!_

 _Give the boys a great big hug and a kiss for me, Artie! I have good news._

 _I found a lovely little apartment to call my own and my work is earning me quite a bit of money! I can't thank you enough for taking care of my boys – I know how much of an inconvenience it must have been for you._

 _So! Are you ready? Inside the envelope you will find_ -'

Arthur didn't bother reading the rest of the letter. No. This couldn't be happening. Not now, not that he was finally used to everything, not now that everything had routine and was comfortable. He had come to realize just how much he loved his nephews and how much they completed his life – even though they annoyed him more frequently than not and drove him to exhaustion. But, they were little beams of sunshine and he was thankful that his world had been turned on its axis. He had no idea he could be a parenting type. Not to mention, they were _settled_ here with him and Francis (did Francis live here now? He shook that thought from his head and refocused). They had been looking at primary schools for Alfred to start attending in the autumn, they had play dates with their "cousin" Peter, they were both making friends at church in their Sunday school.

He turned the envelope over in his hand and shook out two plane tickets.

He turned to Francis and held them up, his eyes wide and a surprisingly painful lump welling up in his throat.

"She wants them to go to her," was all he managed to get out.

Alfred cheered, Matthew continued to cry, Arthur sat down on the floor and held his head in his hands.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

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 **Follow me on Tumblr! Une-Pomm3**


	11. Chapter 11

**Life and Style**

 **Chapter 11**

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 **AN: I had several people once ask me what happened to Gilbert after the chapter that described a large oil painting in Roderich's office. SO I give you Chapter 11, some of our regular story, and a lot of an unexpected one (one that I never intended on writing at all!)**

 **Also, yanno, sorry for the horrid lateness of this. I've been terribly consumed by writer's block. BUT, if you follow my blog on Tumblr, you'll know that I have been drawing a lot... does that in any way make up for my lack of writing? Oh dear, I hope so.**

* * *

The airport was big and loud and altogether frightening.

Matthew held tight to Francis' hand and with the other he held Kuma to his face, chewing on the bear's ear. His eyes were wide as they darted around, overwhelmed by the sensory overload of too large a space with too many people and too many unfamiliar sounds, all leading up to going somewhere strange. Even though his mum was at the other end of this whole ordeal, he couldn't help but feel a tight sense of fear in his gut at the thought of leaving Uncle Arthur and Papa Francis.

He squeezed Francis' hand as tight as he could and tugged on his arm until the man paused in their swift journey across the tiled floors to some unknown destination, Uncle Art proudly leading a few paces ahead.

"What is it, _mon chouchou_?" Francis cooed, gently settling down on one knee to look at Matthew in the eye. He called to Arthur to wait a moment and Alfred poked his head around their uncle's waist to look back at Matthew with wide, curious eyes.

"Papa Francis," Matthew forced himself to look at the Francis directly; he felt his hands begin to shake. "P-papa Francis, I don't wanna go!" The tears were beginning their travel up from the depths and spilling out and down his face before he could even finish his plea. Francis' expression melted from pleasant, controlled happiness, to concern, to sympathy in the blink of an eye; he reached for Matthew (and Kuma, too), pulling them into his chest and hugging tightly.

"Oh, _ch_ _é_ _ri_ , please do not cry, I'm not sure I will be able to stop myself from crying, too!" He wondered in his young brain if that was supposed to be soothing, but Matthew processed it as something rather odd to say in his moment of distress.

"If it is sad for you too, then please don't make me go!" he cried, rubbing his face across Francis' chest, even though the buttons of his silky shirt hurt his nose.

"What's wrong, Mattie?" Alfred's bright, bouncing voice made Matthew cringe; he was far too happy about this.

"I don't wanna go on the plane," Matthew said, turning to glare over his shoulder at his older brother. He clutched Kuma closer and nuzzled further into Francis resulting in a tighter hug. He heard Arthur approach and saw his shoes on the tiles beside Francis, but he did not dare look up at him. He was being a bad, uncooperative boy and he dared not look up to the face that could get him into trouble, no matter how much he desired his reassurance.

"Don't worry, Mattie! I'm a hero! I will hold your hand if you are scared!" Alfred puffed out his chest and Matthew only glared more fiercely.

"No! I don't _want_ to go on the plane and I don't _want_ to leave Uncle Art and Papa Francis. I _don't want to go to_ _maman_." Alfred blinked at him in confusion and tilted his head to the side. Francis tensed in Matthew's little grip and he returned his face to the silken shirt and started to cry so hard he wondered if he might accidentally suffocate himself. Francis started murmuring to him in gentle French, one hand holding him close and the other rubbing circles on his back. A second pair of hands began to smooth down his hair and a familiar British accent joined with the French, weaving in quiet words of understanding. This only made Matthew cry harder when he half-turned with watery eyes and saw Arthur kneeling on the floor next to Francis, his face pulled in worry; dark circles traced his eyes and his eyebrows were drawn in a deep frown.

"Arthur..." Francis' chest rumbled as he spoke, his voice coming out much more choked than his normal song-like trill. Uncle Art only shook his head and continued to run his hands through Matthew's hair until he had no more tears left to cry.

"But, Mattie," Alfred continued when Matthew was only sniffling and Uncle Art rose to his feet; Francis continued to hug him. "Mattie, it's been so long since we saw mum. Don't you miss her?"

"Yes," Matthew said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "but I don't want to live without Uncle Art and Papa Francis."

"But, they will come too," he turned his attention to their uncle with wide, pleading eyes, "aren't you?" Alfred's lip began to tremble as Uncle Art visibly searched for words, chewing on the inside of his cheek and slowly shaking his head.

"No, pet," he said, "I can't come with you. Your mother wants you to live with her now in her new home and I have to stay here."

There was a moment of dead silence before Alfred broke out into confused wailing and tears started pouring down his face. Matthew bit down on his lip to keep himself from crying more and buried his face back into Francis' chest. It was unfair! Matthew loved his mum, but she was more often gone and he and Alfred left with a babysitter than at home. With Uncle Art and Papa Francis he had a _home_. He wanted to see his mum every day and give her lots of hugs and kisses, but the thought of leaving behind the two people that took care of him every day made his stomach drop into his shoes. Not even Kumajiro could help him feel better.

.

Arthur only barely managed to hold himself together for the remainder of the stroll through the airport. Alfred's tears soaked through his shirt and left him with an uncomfortable wet-spot that irritated his skin, a physical reminder of the emotional parting. He and Francis could only take the boys as far as the terminal gate before a cheery flight attendant met them, assuring Arthur that she would keep a careful eye on both boys during the journey (and assured Francis that they would be given any luxury they asked for should they need _anything_ during the flight). The boys clung to each other and cried more as Francis and Arthur sat on the floor in the middle of the airport and hugged them close, soothing them as other travelers walked around them. Arthur didn't care.

His nephews felt like a burden when they first arrived on his doorstep several months ago. Now, he felt like his family was being ripped apart. The whole situation was made all the more sour because there wasn't anything he could do about it. He wasn't their father, he wasn't their legal guardian. Elizabeth was their mother and had every right to want her sons back with her. Surely she missed them dearly and she deserved to have her own family restored. Arthur wondered what sort of emotional distress she must have suffered through that first evening as she drove away in the taxi, leaving her sons behind with their disgruntled uncle.

Arthur heaved a sigh and let his head fall against the car window as he watched the world whiz by. One of Francis' hands left the steering wheel as he drove and dropped it to Arthur's knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The moment the boys had disappeared behind the terminal gate they had said nothing more to each other. They sat in silence at a cafe table by the window until the airbus taxied away from the terminal; they said not a word as they watched it barrel down the runway, nose tipping up and wheels bouncing until it jumped into the air and began its ascent. They did not exchange more than a sad look between each other as they watched the airplane bank, turn, and eventually disappear into the distance. Francis only took Arthur's hand and silently lead him back through the airport and to his parked car. The atmosphere in the car during the drive home was frighteningly silent, heavy, and like it was on a tipping point. Arthur worried his bottom lip between his teeth and closed his eyes until he felt the car slow, turn, bump over the sidewalk and into his driveway. They sat in the car, Francis' hand still on Arthur's knee.

His voice barely above a whisper, Francis cut through the quiet with a gentle, "Arthur...?"

"What am I supposed to do now?" Arthur turned to him, his eyes finally betraying the emotional he held in check the whole afternoon; his throat ached with the effort to withhold his tears. The sight of Francis unraveling at his raw words broke the dam and the tears came spilling out at an alarming rate. "F-Francis-" he choked and Francis reached across the console for him, hugging him as close as they could in the car. "Lizzie _wrecked_ my life by leaving them with me, they ruined _e-everything_ I had planned for myself," he sobbed, "but I _love_ them and now that they are gone I don't-I can't-" A string of French passed through Francis' lips as he peppered kisses across the top of Arthur's head. His own breathing was ragged and he paused to collect himself as he ran his hands up and down Arthur's back and tried to sooth him back to calm. "They changed everything and I don't know if I can go back to how it all was before," he wept.

They sat in the car for a better part of an hour before Arthur's emotions had run their course and Francis quietly unbuckled both their seat belts. Arthur didn't have any recollection of exiting the car, only he was suddenly being gently guided up the garden path to his front door. Once inside, an afghan was wrapped around his shoulders and a steaming mug of tea was brought to him while he sat staring at nothing in his favourite armchair. There were still children's movies strewn about the coffee table, and a box of toys tipped over, contents spilling across the living room floor. The house was silent.

.

Roderich sighed heavily and leaned back in his office chair, idly fiddling with his glasses as his eyes roamed over the too-familiar oil painting hung on the wall opposite of him.

He loved that painting; it was a love that would constantly stab him in the gut and twist like a guilt-ridden knife. He would never remove it.

The painting had been based upon a Polaroid photograph that someone had snapped in secret – his girlfriend at the time, now wife, Elizabeta. He felt the corners of his mouth tug into a sad smile at the thought of her witnessing such easy, natural affection playing out between himself and his dearest friend, Gilbert. The only person in the world for which Roderich would compose symphonies. He had started many, of course, penning the lyrical notes of grand exposition that would put his emotions into the only way he knew how to properly release them from the confusing cluster of thoughts in his head. He had never been good with words or expressing himself when it came to matters of the heart.

He often found himself wondering just how he had got himself a girlfriend to begin with, and why she married him. Eliza had been the one to march up to him in their final year or high school, boldly announcing that she thought he was rather cute and they'd make a good couple. He wasn't sure he was ever a good boyfriend. He was never really that interested in romance with her, but he enjoyed the company and the friendship that came with their strange sort of relationship.

Gilbert, however... Gilbert was the fire in his gut and the itch under his skin he could never reach. Gilbert drove Roderich up the wall and straight into crazy in ways nobody else could. He would drag Roderich kicking and screaming from his confines of polite propriety and into the most pointless of arguments that always left him red-faced and panting.

The first time they had kissed was shortly after one particularly rough argument that left Roderich stomping to the music room to abuse the keys of the piano there and let out his frustrations. Gilbert had sauntered in shortly after and leaned against the piano, getting his fingerprints all over the lacquered surface. Roderich balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the keys, roaring in frustration; he grabbed at Gilbert's hand so he would cease marring the beautiful instrument that was supposed to be Roderich's comfort, not a source of his stress. He had meant to shove him away, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of the hand he had captured. What felt like an eternity passed between them, their eyes locked and Roderich forgot how to breathe. So did Gilbert, because he suddenly gasped before leaning forward and claiming Roderich's mouth with his own.

That was the tipping point of their strange relationship. They became a strange sort of complicated friends, perpetually on the verge of something more, something that neither of them could discuss potentially having. There was Eliza to think about, and Roderich loved her in the best way he knew how; additionally, falling in love with another man was never acceptable in his familial household. He had to be the good son who married a nice girl and raised a respectable family. He couldn't have burning passion and heated romance and kisses that were too much teeth and tongue and not enough tender touches and whispered promises in the dark.

Gilbert very quickly became Roderich's true confident and, together with Eliza, they were an inseparable trio. Roderich always wondered if she knew about how deep his affections for Gilbert eventually grew to; she was too smart not to notice, but she never voiced any concerns. She would quietly smile when Gilbert reached for both their hands, but held on to Roderich's a little bit longer, or when Roderich would lean against Gilbert's knees when sitting on the floor in front of him, rolling his head back as Gilbert absently ran his fingers through Roderich's hair. She watched on with a knowing glint in her eye, but said nothing, and still desired to be called Roderich's girlfriend.

After college Eliza had proposed marriage over dinner as if she were talking about the weather. Roderich had half a mind to turn her down, but she mentioned that both their families expected it, so why not just do it? He couldn't argue there, and it wasn't like he had any other options for marriage... Gilbert was furious when Roderich informed him of the news. That was the second time they kissed – Gilbert tried to convince Roderich to throw his comfortable life away and risk it all for – _for what_?

Roderich couldn't help but wonder how life would have been differently if he had refused to marry Eliza. Even if he never chased after that _something more_ with Gilbert, would things have ended differently? Happier? Could he have helped change anything?

Gilbert settled after Eliza's quiet persuasion, of course, and stood up with them on their wedding day. He gave a marvelous speech and moved the room to tears with talk about how much his best friend, Roderich, meant to him and how luck he was to marry such a beautiful woman like Eliza. Roderich had a sour taste in his mouth the entire evening, but he played the part of a happy groom and did his duty as a new, loving husband in the night. He whispered he loved her with his face pressed into her hair and she said the same. They both knew it was not the same love that typically followed a wedding. Roderich's heart had been stolen away by an icy complexion, mysterious eyes, and a stupid lazy grin that made a shiver run down his spine.

The Polaroid photograph was taken while Roderich was practicing for a show – Gilbert dutifully followed Roderich's music career, as any best friend should. He would often arrive in town the night before to sit with Roderich while he practiced one last time, laughing with him and easing away any of Roderich's insecurities – something Eliza was never quite able to accomplish, no matter how hard she tried. She always seemed to hover just off stage, watching the two of them interact and never getting between. She would be ready with open arms when Gilbert danced away, chasing after whatever ridiculous dream he decided to follow, like a child running after a butterfly during a lazy summer afternoon. He got himself in and out of more sticky situations than Roderich cared to count and made his fortune wherever his feet took him. He always came home so he could be part of the audience for Roderich's opening night concerts. He always stayed just long enough to stir up emotions that would later spill out onto sheets of music as Roderich released his thoughts, composing symphonies dedicated always only to Gilbert.

Roderich had been in Austria on tour when he was interrupted in his dressing room, an international cellphone pressed to the chest of some nobody-stagehand. Roderich almost didn't take the call, insisting it couldn't be that important, he was ten minutes away from strolling on stage and playing his piano for an audience of several hundred. He eventually did, at the insistence of the hand holding the phone, pressing it to Roderich, pleading he take it.

He slipped to the floor and was made undone when the crackled voice of some family friend (he could no longer remember who, it wasn't important) told him that Gilbert was in the hospital. He flew home on the first plane he could find tickets for and didn't even stop at home between the airport and the hospital. He ran to the room once the nurse pointed it out and he skidded to a halt in time to kiss his wife hello on the cheek. Her cheeks were wet from tears, never a good sign in such a proud woman. She left him alone as he slipped into Gilbert's room, and eventually collapsing into a chair at his side. He was awake, barely coherent. He cracked some pitiful joke about how the awesome he would not be taken down by some silly illness. That was the third time they kissed. Roderich didn't care that Eliza was just feet away, likely watching from the door. He leaned down and took Gilbert's chin in his hands and pressed their lips together, chaste, without the teeth and tongue and passion that normally consumed them when they shared the same air. He felt himself crumbling, Gilbert's lips did not hold the same warmth that he remembered, that he dreamed about, they were rough and cool. Gilbert's eyelashes fluttered against Roderich's cheek and he broke away, pressing their foreheads together. Gilbert had the nerve to laugh quietly, _happily_ , his eyes fluttering beneath his lids, remaining closed and keeping Roderich from staring into their mystery before he slipped away, like dry sand through splayed fingers.

Roderich cried out, even though Gilbert couldn't hear him. He screamed his name, pressed their lips together again and whispered the words they had longed to exchange for the majority of their relationship.

"I love you, I love you, oh God, Gilbert, I love you, _please_ ," he choked, kissing him again and again, "please, my heart is yours, it was always yours, it will forever be yours, I _love_ you!" At some point Eliza came to peel him away, still reaching for his best friend, sobbing uncontrollably.

He never wrote another symphony.

Roderich was startled out of his reverie by a knock on his office door. He wiped away at the moisture building in his eyes before clearing his throat and summoning his most commanding voice, bidding the person on the other side to _enter_.

His eyes widened a fraction when Arthur Kirkland quietly shuffled in, snapping the door shut behind him.

"Arthur," he gestured to the chair across from him, "I didn't expect to see you back just yet. Please, sit," he folded his hands across his lap so Arthur would not see them shaking.

"Hello, sir," Arthur sagged into the seat like he had been standing for the last several hours. The man looked exhausted; he allowed a minute of silence to pass, passively observing as Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, collecting his thoughts.

"Are you ready to come back to work?" he prompted, impatient for the Brit to get the conversation rolling.

"Yes, sir, but," he hesitated, lowering his hand from his face and looking in Roderich's direction, but unseeing. "I do not feel my opinions are quite as Brash as they once were."

"Ah," Roderich sighed. He feared as much.

"However, I do have a proposition for my return, if you would think it could be an appropriate edition to an editorial under your umbrella." Roderich only quirked a brow and tilted his head, welcoming Arthur to continue. "I do write short fiction from time to time and I had a thought about running a longer story in short pieces."

"A serial?"

"Well, yes, I suppose that's what that would be. I had an idea for a story I think our readership might enjoy." Roderich hummed in thought. "I would also like to write as a freelance author for other articles. Ludwig is doing just fine with Brash Opinions, I would feel like I would be misplacing him now; besides, I've quite enjoyed working from home the last few months."

"I'm sure," he drummed his fingers on his lap and regarded Arthur with a critical eye. "Do you have a script of this serial you want to run in one of my magazines, or a sample chapter?" Arthur nodded and reached for the satchel strung across his chest. He fiddled with it before producing a manila folder and passing it to Roderich over the desk. Roderich was relieved that his hands held steady as he reached for it and flipped it open.

He scanned the first page, then flipped through the rest, before looking back to Arthur with an eyebrow raised.

"Mermen, Arthur?"

"Ah," Arthur cleared his throat, "it was a silly idea I had from one of my nephews. They liked when I made up bedtime stories for them and they had recently watched Little Mermaid. They asked for different stories about mermaids and mermen for weeks. It was hard not to latch on to one of those see where it went..." he trailed off, his face flushing with obvious embarrassment. "Perhaps it was a silly idea-"

"No," Roderich held up one of his hands and gazed back down to the scrawled notes and chunks of prose in the folder in front of him. "It's a clever idea, I like it. Have the first piece on my desk by next Friday. I will run it in one of my magazines as a test and see how it is received. We can go from there."

"Thank you, sir!" Arthur stood, his face holding an expression of surprise, like he had not suspected Roderich to agree to his silly, romantic idea of fish-people living in the English Channel.

"If this goes well for you," he added slowly, an afterthought, "we may be able to turn something like that into a book." Arthur's eyes brightened at the prospect.

"I will do my best, sir."

"I expect nothing less. I'll see you next Friday."


End file.
